We've Got Tonight
by Katjandante
Summary: How do you measure, measure a life? Kurt attempts to measure Finn's life in love, but it's so much harder than he remembers it being. Klaine, Hudmel family with a dose of New Directions, all coming together to bid Finn farewell.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I started writing this only hours after hearing the tragic news, but its completion took a while. I was determined to get it finished before the tribute aired. I tried to portray Finn very honestly, because despite all his flaws and weaknesses, he's very real and genuine as a character, he's got a big heart, and he always means well, even if he bungles the attempt.**

**Finn is such an integral part of Glee, one of the originals (kind of), and Cory Monteith is so beloved, and to top it off, he's Canadian, which is extra awesome. My heart goes out to everyone touched by this tragic loss: the entire Glee family, Cory's own friends and family, and every fan (including mine) whose heart he touched with his self-deprecating humour, bumbling dance steps, and his open, honest candour. **

**I'm an out-and-proud Klainer, so this is my attempt to see how Kurt would deal with the loss. As I mentioned before, this was started only hours after the news broke and I haven't attempted to make it fit canon, so any resemblance ('Seasons of Love') is coincidence (or great minds?).**

**Disclaimer: Do any of us really need to write this? It's sort of obvious . . .**

**Warning: Bit of nudity, mild suggestion of past sexual activity.**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

Scratch that, it was never supposed to happen. Period.

Still ticked at his brother for ruining the pearl-yellow Egyptian cotton sheets he had left at home, Kurt doesn't pick up when his brother's face flashes across his iPhone at an ungodly morning hour. Finn had sacrificed those _expensive_, six-hundred thread-count sheets in the name of a Toga Party his dorm was having, and whilst Kurt has never lived in a college dorm, he knows full well what goes on there. He had lived through Dalton, and he has been to multiple dorm parties here, especially since starting at NYADA.

Finn's ruined his things before, which is why Kurt has his _own_ section in the linen closet, one that Finn knows not to touch, and his _own_ section in the front hall closet, and his _own_ section in the fridge and pantry. Everyone in the house knows not to touch the items in there; certainly not without asking first.

So, yeah, Kurt's pretty ticked, and Finn's going to have to grovel.

And he still doesn't want to talk to his brother a few hours later when he actually gets up (even though waking him from his hangover would be sweet revenge), because not only is he about to be late for class if he can't find his dance bag (his hair hasn't been co-operating all morning), but everyone knows Kurt tends to get cruel when he's mad, and say things he shouldn't. He goes straight for the jugular, a skill learnt early at the hands of his bullies, when his words were the only weapon the tiny boy had had. It's something he's working on, but he's not willing to test it, not this early in the morning, and not when he's on the verge of being late, and frazzled, and oh-so very pissed.

"Aha!"

He grabs his dance bag from where Rachel had undoubtedly kicked it beneath their couch (they really have to have another talk about that), and heads quickly for the subway station, hoping he hasn't missed the train at 47 minutes past. It's so much nicer and less-crowded than the one that comes ten minutes later.

He has a long day today, starting with an early morning dance class and ending with another one, with a private voice lesson, dramatic acting, staging, and history of theatre classes inbetween. And Adam really wants him to come to glee rehearsal as well, and he has to finish a five-minute monologue and a paper comparing staging in the fifties and today for tomorrow.

He loves every moment of it, he won't pretend otherwise. He has finally found his niche, a small group of friends that extend outside Rachel, and the acceptance and recognition of his talent he had never truly had back in Lima, no matter how Mr. Schue had preached about including everyone, and each one being a star.

He can feel his phone vibrating during dance class, when he grabs water and changes his wristbands, and again when he's showering (and he still doesn't feel comfortable in the boys' showers here, even though he's far from the only flamboyant gay guy), but he literally has ten minutes _(ten minutes!)_ to shower, dress, do his hair (again!), and be in time for his History of Theatre class. He's never yet managed it, but he's consoled by the fact that it's always the same three of them who are late, who simply cannot make it happen in that tiny amount of time.

He finally gets a breather around lunch, which he spends in the large dance studio, working on the tango with Derek, one of his friends, also gay. Because he has a woman's voice, Kurt wants to be able to dance both parts in these typical dances, knowing he may well audition for a female role one day. He certainly has considered going in for Fanny Brice in the _Funny Girl_ revival.

They take a break, and head for their bags, when his phone vibrates, again. Kurt is eyeing a ballet dancer, a senior, admiring her flexibility and the point of her toes as he pulls his phone out.

It's his Dad.

He quickly swipes his finger across the screen, grimacing as he holds it to his ear. At least he's not too sweaty. "Hey, Dad."

"Kurt, oh thank God you picked up." The man lets out a big sigh of relief. "Carole and I have been trying to reach you all morning!"

He's distracted by another dancer, this one a guy a few years older than him, clad in only a pair of shorts that leave his six-pack hanging out, and _nothing_ to the imagination, and doesn't pick up on the tone of his Father's voice.

"I'm sorry, Dad, it's been crazy. Today is my really busy day, what with classes and studying and everything, I usually don't have time to check my phone until I get home" he halfway apologises, eyes on that broad back with the muscles rippling beneath sweaty skin.

"I know" Burt says, hesitating. "Kurt, I gotta tell you something, and I really wish I didn't have to do this . . ."

That gets his attention, and Kurt frowns, despite the wrinkles it may one day give him. If his skin ever dares to get wrinkles, that is. "Dad? Are you okay? Oh no, it's the cancer, isn't it? The chemo's not working? I knew it seemed too good to be true, you've been hiding it from me, haven't you, and now you can't anymore because it's too serious and, oh Gaga, you need surgery again, don't you?" he rambles, suddenly terrified.

"No, Kurt, it's not me, the cancer's not a problem" Burt hastens to reassure his son, hoping he never has to find out how Kurt would react to this exact scenario.

"Dad, you're scaring me." Kurt is paying full attention now, Derek and the dancers completely forgotten. He's in his own little world, leaning against the barre, eyes blank as he focusses on his Father's voice, trying to read the little nuances in his tone.

"I have some really, really bad news, Kurt" Burt says through the phone, and it sounds like he's trying his best not to cry.

"Dad?" Kurt's voice is suddenly that of his eight-year-old self again, the one that lost his Mother.

"Kurt . . . Kurt, something happened on campus last night, or this morning. The police still don't know what, but Finn-" Burt chokes and swallows audibly as Kurt's heart starts pounding furiously in his chest, painfully. "Finn . . . he died, Kurt."

The world goes absolutely silent, suspended in time for a brief moment as the breath rushes from Kurt's lungs and he sinks to the floor, his knees giving out. _"What?!"_ he whispers in disbelief, sure he's heard wrong.

"Finn . . . something happened and he . . . died" Burt says again, his voice catching. "A couple students found him in his dorm room this morning. We don't know anything else yet."

Kurt stares at nothing, waiting for feeling and emotion to return to him, waiting for the foggy haze to dissipate, and the world to catch up with him from this suspended reality.

It does, crashing down on him in a thunder of horror and agony that he knows far too well. "No" he gulps in disbelief, "no, no. Oh my Gaga, no." He can feel his iron façade of control slipping, but doesn't know if he has the strength to maintain it. "No, Dad, please. Tell me this is Finn's and Puck's cruel idea of a prank, and that you took leave of your senses in order to go along with it, and this isn't true."

He knows his Dad would never play this sort of a prank on him.

Derek is watching in concern, having seen his friend's reaction to whatever news he had received.

"Kurt, Kiddo, I wish I could." Burt sounds almost broken by the news.

"Finn . . . Dad, it can't be" Kurt tries to insist. "He borrowed my eight-hundred thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets for a Toga party last night, he called me this morning, at some ridiculous, inhuman hour, mere minutes after I'd finally gotten myself to bed, only to rouse me in order to inform me he'd ruined them." The last time he'd ever spoken to his brother, and he'd unknowingly hung up in righteous fury.

"It's him" Burt says flatly.

"Oh, Gaga" he breathes, curling in on himself, breaths coming in short, hard pants. "Oh Gaga" he repeats, and he remembers when Finn had shown up in that red shower curtain and rescued him from a gay-bashing, looking absolutely ridiculous, and yet proud as a peacock. The gesture hadn't fixed everything, but it had been a big first step in helping Kurt be willing to give him another chance.

"Kurt?" The erratic breathing coming down the phone line worries Burt.

"Are you okay, Dad? How are you holding up?" Kurt asks, oblivious to the room around him. His voice doesn't crack, and he's proud of that, but it quavers, and all he can think about is _this can't be real._

Burt swallows hard. "I already lost a wife, and I nearly lost you a couple of times, and-" His voice does crack this time.

"Dad, I'm so, so sorry" Kurt murmurs, swallowing hard, and he knows he has to get to Lima as quickly as possible.

"Don't you worry about me, Kiddo." Burt tries to pull himself together, knowing he's going to have to be the strong one in his marriage for the next while.

Kurt hesitates. "How's Carole?" His voice is small.

"Not good" Burt admits. "She's . . . she's pretty broken. First her husband, and now her . . . son." But she's a fighter. "She's so strong."

Kurt cracks at that, and he cannot hold the tears back any longer. It's too real, and it feels like his heart is absolutely shattering into a million little pieces. It's almost worse than when Blaine had admitted to cheating on him, and – oh. "Does Rachel know?" he gulps, swallowing painfully. He dashes a hand across his tear-streaked cheeks.

The on-again, off-again relationship saga that is 'Finchel' is way too much for anyone to follow, and on any given day, Hell, at any given _hour_, Kurt has no clue what their relationship status may be. He doesn't think either of them are right for each other, and knows what they put each other through is unhealthy, but he knows Finn is . . . was . . . still completely in love with Rachel, who has been trying desperately not to still be in love with Finn.

"I don't know" Burt says honestly. "Puck knows, because he was there, but I don't know who he's told. The cops may have taken his phone."

"Wait." Kurt narrows his eyes, honing in. "Puck was _there_? Cops? Did someone _do_ this to him?!" His voice rises almost hysterically.

"They don't think so, but they don't know. We don't know anything, Kurt." Burt breaks away to blow his nose.

"Oh Gaga" Kurt whispers again, shaking his head. His hand is at his mouth, clenched in a fist, and he's trying really hard not to bite it like he once did. "Dad" he nearly whimpers, because that's all a kid really wants when everything's not okay. His Father . . . or Blaine. "I-I'm coming home."

He hasn't even though about it yet; the words just slip out, but he knows they're right. NYADA, classes, _Vogue_, none of it matters right now. He needs to be in Lima.

"I figured" Burt says. "I deposited enough for a ticket into your chequing account."

"Thank you" Kurt whispers, knowing that what with NYADA expenses and reduced hours at , not to mention the return for Mr. Schue's non-wedding in February, he just doesn't have enough for a plane ticket without help.

"Let me know when you arrive, I'll pick you up" Burt says. "I'm sorry, Kurt, I need to go now, we need the phone to, well, yeah." He swallows hard. "You okay?" he asks softly.

Kurt blinks, surprised at the question. "I-I don't . . . for now?" he offers. He's always been okay, he's always needed to be, and he can count on one hand the number of times he _hasn't_ been.

"I love you, Kurt." Burt's voice is brimming with emotion.

"Me too, Dad." Kurt puts everything into it that he has. "Give Carole a big hug for me." His voice cracks as he says this, and he loses the battle, biting down on his knuckle as more tears overflow.

"I will" Burt promises. He doesn't want to hang up, but he has to. "I love you" he says again. All he wants to do is continue talking with his son, because every sound that comes through the line is a tangible reminder that Kurt is still here, heart still beating, lungs still breathing.

"I love you, Dad." Kurt hangs up, because otherwise this will go on forever.

He can feel his entire body quaking as he quickly checks his phone. Apart from the sixteen missed calls from his Dad, there are several texts from his Father, urging him to call, and two from Finn, that he cannot bring himself to read. But otherwise, there's nothing, and when he checks WhatsApp, he sees Rachel hasn't messaged him.

She doesn't know, then.

"Kurt?" Derek's voice finally breaks through his reverie. "Kurt, man, what's wrong? What happened?" The other boy is crouching by him, eyes worried.

Kurt shakes his head. "I-I have to go." He needs to get to Lima. And seeing as someone has to tell Rachel, and he is here, he knows it's got to be him. "I have to find Rachel."

Kurt spends a frantic twenty minutes trying to locate her, Adam trailing worriedly after him, and finally bursts into her Modern Theatre class.

"Excuse me?" The professor raises a sardonic brow, the likes of which Kurt has long ago perfected. "Is there a problem?" His voice changes, and Kurt knows he looks a mess.

Rachel gasps at the sight of him, and pales dramatically, instantly knowing it cannot be good news. "Oh, God" she breathes, staring.

"Let's go" Kurt says, voice hard as he tries to prod her frozen form into action. They can't do this here, not in front of everybody. Rachel is a drama queen, prone to theatrics, and still in love, and he knows it will not be pretty. "Come on!" It's quite literally taking everything he's got to hold it together, but he can't fall apart, not yet. He's a sympathy crier though, and knows when Rachel loses it, part of him will as well.

She startles and shakes her long tresses, dark-rimmed eyes still wide, the perfect picture of the main character, awaiting the tragedy about to befall her. "Excuse me" she says to her Professor, grabbing her books and bag, quickly exiting the classroom. "What is it, Kurt?" She corners him in the hallway.

"Not here."

She shakes her head stubbornly. "No. What is it? Tell me" she demands, her eyes already damp. She is holding onto his arm, very set despite her sky-high, spiky heels in those knee-high black boots she so loves.

"Fine." Kurt doesn't have the patience to deal with this. He looks away and takes a breath. "Something happened early this morning, and Finn – he uh . . ." His voice trails off, and he steels himself. "He died, Rachel." There, it's out. There's no taking it back now. He pulls in a shaky breath, in awe of the pain squeezing his chest.

"What?" Rachel takes a step back in disbelief, hand splayed on her chest. "What, no! No, Kurt, no!" she shrieks, eyes wide in horror. "No" she whispers, her eyes searching his desperately, looking for any hint of a lie in them. She sees nothing but the agonised truth. "Oh my God" she whispers, taking another step back, her bag sliding to the floor. "No."

Then she dissolves into an absolute puddle of tears, desperate, grief-stricken tears, mascara running in streaks down her face, sinking to her knees in the middle of the hallway.

* * *

The flight is long, too long, and every minute feels longer than the last. Rachel had composed herself long enough to clear Security, but although her delivery is, as always, with a flair for the dramatic and theatrical, Kurt knows her well enough to see that her grief and anguish are very, very real.

To his surprise, Santana is the one who is comforting Rachel. Perhaps the bond each of them had once shared with Finn brings them together, Kurt doesn't know, but he's grateful he doesn't have to deal with it, because he knows he can't.

He finds out the instant McKinley hears, because at once his phone lights up with Blaine's smiling face. He wants nothing more than to pick up and let his best friend (and yes, soul mate, he doesn't have the strength to refute that right now) comfort him, but he doesn't, because he can't. Not yet.

Instead, his phone vibrates non-stop with incoming texts and calls, until he gets onto the plane and has to turn it off.

Santana had let her inner Snicks loose, and scored them three seats together, with some space surrounding them for privacy, and Kurt is grateful now, as he gazes unseeingly out the window. He doesn't know what he thinks, how he feels, it's all just numb, and even though it feels like he's moving slow-motion through a foggy, hazy medium that presses down on him in every way, it's preferable to the sharp, unrelenting, heart-clenching agony he knows will hit when he's processed it all somewhat, and he's eager to avoid that onset.

The stewardesses are extra nice; Rachel hasn't stopped crying, and it hadn't taken much to get the story from her, but Kurt doesn't want anyone's pity, or even sympathy. He is so relieved when they finally land, and are allowed to deplane first. Perhaps his Father had pulled some of the strings to which he now has access as a Congressman, because Kurt has never sailed through Security so easily. Their checked luggage is even waiting for them.

He grabs his two suitcases and marches for the exit, searching desperately for his Dad.

Instead, he spots an overly-gelled head, bopping up and down in an effort to see over the heads of those taller than him.

Kurt freezes for a moment, and those beautiful hazel eyes spot him in an instant.

"Kurt!" And then Blaine is there, arms wrapped tightly around him, surrounding him, holding him, and Kurt can smell the raspberry hair gel and Armani cologne and peppermint and coffee, with a hint of honey, and he inhales deeply, burying his head in his favourite spot on Blaine's shoulder.

He shudders violently with the effort not to crack, because Blaine has always had this effect on him. Blaine is the only person with whom he can let his walls down and just _be_, and despite everything that's happened between them, that hasn't changed.

"Blaine" he gets out, his own arms holding on tightly, too tightly, as the other boy lets out a squeak.

"Kurt, can't breathe" Blaine forces out, hands rubbing soothingly up and down Kurt's back, and the countertenor loosens his hold, still unable to let go completely.

They remain in that embrace for far longer than is socially acceptable, and Blaine finally pulls away, reluctantly, all-too aware of the ugly stares they are receiving. "C'mon" the shorter boy urges, reaching for the suitcases Kurt has all but forgotten about. "Rachel's Dads are bringing her and Santana home" he adds as the boy he's never stopped loving manages to detach himself, straightening.

Kurt nods bleakly, expressive glasz eyes filled with an agony the likes of which Blaine hasn't seen since they had first met. It scares him. 'Screw Ohio' Blaine thinks, and takes Kurt's hand back, leading the slightly taller boy through the bustling airport, trailing behind the Berrys and Santana, both men with their arms wrapped around their daughter.

The ride home seems to take forever, and yet before he knows it, they're pulling up at his house. Their house. Only, there's a body missing, and it's never coming back.

Kurt's breath hitches in his chest, his knuckles white as he clenches his hands into fists, perfectly-buffed nails digging into his palms. He stares at the house, now short a member, and he wonders just how he's supposed to _do_ this. He's frozen in place, panicked, terrified of what awaits him in there, of what will become reality when he walks through that door.

Suddenly, it doesn't feel like home anymore.

"Kurt." Blaine reaches out, and it's only as the former Warbler grasps his icy hand that Kurt realises he's shaking. "Oh, Baby."

The endearment slips out without either of them noticing, because whilst this break-up, the separation and distance may have been exactly what they had needed in order to grow as individuals, they have never stopped loving each other.

Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt again, pulling the countertenor to him. Kurt's hands clench around the fabric of his shirt, and Blaine rubs his hands up and down Kurt's trembling back, feeling how taut and knotted the muscles are. "You ready?" he asks after several moments, knowing he's given Kurt the strength he needs.

"I'll never be" Kurt responds, but he pulls back nonetheless, steeling himself. He knows what it's like to walk into a house that's been cast with the pall of death, only this time, he's not an eight-year-old child who can hide from it in his Father's arms. This time, he's a brother – no, a step-brother.

"Courage." Blaine whispers their mantra.

Kurt shudders, but steels himself, setting his jaw as he opens the door and makes his way from the vehicle to the interior of what had once been a home.

* * *

He'd been right. It's no longer a home.

His Father crushes him to his chest, and then Carole does the same, but Kurt cannot help wondering, as her tears ruin his favourite McQueen scarf, if there isn't a part of her wishing it had been Burt's son and not hers that had died.

"I'm going to shower" he says. Airplanes are filthy places, and he's still sweaty from dance class. He heads woodenly up the stairs to his bedroom, purposely ignoring the open door and trail of clothes on the floor leading to a room that will never be occupied again. There's a stabbing pain in his chest, and he pushes past and into his bathroom, Blaine trailing gallantly behind with his suitcases.

They end up showering together, somehow falling back into the same routines that have brought him immeasurable comfort over the course of their relationship. They may have broken up, but both had known it could never erase the history between them. It's not about sex, no matter how intimate the touches; Blaine soaps up a loofah and tenderly washes his soul-mate, feeling the knots in his muscles, and the fine trembles running through them. He tries to soothe Kurt, pouring every bit of his love into the gentle touches, his lips sometimes following his hands.

If Kurt's tears mingle silently with the water pouring down, no one knows.

"How are you?" Blaine asks as he dries Kurt, running the soft towel along the pale, toned planes of Kurt's new body. NYADA and dance classes and New York have been kind to him, that's for certain, as he's more gorgeous than ever. It's not just physical, either; Kurt has finally found a place that celebrates who he is, and it's doing wonders to heal all those wounds on his heart.

Kurt blinks. "I have to be okay" he says, voice distant.

"Not with me, you don't" Blaine reminds him softly. He hangs up the towel and grabs Kurt's moisturiser.

"If I let myself fall apart now, I'll never be able to stop" Kurt explains woodenly. His always-expressive eyes are deep pools of agony, welling with grief he will not yet allow himself to feel.

Blaine finishes smoothing on the pomegranate-scented lotion, and wipes his hands on his own body, before washing them carefully. He knows better than to touch Kurt's precious clothes without spotless hands. "Just don't forget to find a time when you can let go" he says quietly, as Kurt picks out a pair of skinny jeans, a black Henley, and a black cardigan with some odd zippers Blaine can't quite figure out. As always, it looks breathtaking on the slim countertenor, even if the skinny jeans aren't quite as tight as they used to be.

"I've done this before" Kurt says, more harshly than he'd intended.

"I know" Blaine nods sadly. He rests a warm hand on Kurt's now-clothed bicep. "And just remember that I'm here, whatever, whenever." He doesn't push, because he knows Kurt doesn't want to let go quite yet. He'll do so later, when they have time, and he'll push all of Kurt's buttons until he lets go, somewhat.

Kurt's eyes are watery again, and he swallows painfully and looks away. "I should help." Last time, he had been largely protected from everything that had needed to be done following a death; this time, he knows his organisational skills will come in handy. And since there's no denying the inevitable, he intends to have a hand in the . . . funeral.

Back downstairs, Carole is alternating between floods of tears, and stoic perseverance. She too has done this before, and he wonders if it gets easier with time, or if knowing how much it will hurt just makes it harder. Feeling a vibration in his pocket, Blaine steps closer to his once-boyfriend and still-lover. "Just got a text from Sam" he says quietly. "The New Directions are all gathering at Artie's. Would you like to go for a while? I'll drive you."

Kurt glances at his parents. He doesn't want to stay here, and yet he does, and he knows he should be there to support Carole. He doesn't know what he wants. He looks towards his parents, and then his eyes fall on a the nerf ball and hoop mounted near the TV that Finn had always played with whilst watching sports, driving his Mom and step-brother crazy, and it hits him like a freight train.

"Oh Gaga" he whispers, his heart clenching painfully. It feels like the wind is once again knocked from his chest, and he wonders how many times this is going to happen. He wonders if he staggers back with the force with which it hits him.

Blaine doesn't say anything, but he reaches out and grasps Kurt's still tightly-clenched fist, smoothing his thumb over the back of Kurt's hand. His hazel eyes follow Kurt's gaze, and the lump in his throat hardens. He too, has spent far too many hours watching football with the Hudmel menfolk, trading off shots with Finn, trying to knock each others' balls out of the air, quickly hiding any evidence when Carole is in the vicinity, their guilty expressions and askew knick-knacks a dead giveaway.

"Not tonight" Kurt whispers, knowing his place is here, at home.

Blaine nods in quiet understanding. "I should go." He feels like an intruder on the family's grief, because for as much as the Hudmels have all but adopted him as their own, both parents remaining certain through everything that Blaine will indeed one day belong to their family, he knows he doesn't, not yet. They need this time together, and he is going to go to Artie's now.

Kurt turns to him, eyes wide. "Blaine."

"No, this is family time" the former Warbler insists, "and I'm not, not really. Not yet." He knows what Kurt had been about to say. "If you need _anything_, I'm only a text away."

Kurt swallows hard and nods silently.

"And if you change your mind about Artie's, just let me know" Blaine adds, because he doesn't think Kurt should be driving.

Another nod, glasz eyes tragic.

Blaine says a brief goodbye to Burt, hugs Carole, and then shares another long hug with Kurt before slipping out.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I feel like I should say something here, but what is there to say? **

**Warning: Some swearing, drinking . . . these are young adults dealing with a tough and devastating situation, and how they deal, well, it isn't always healthy or pretty. Also some homophobia, because I just can't resist beating Kurt down.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

The police come by the next morning; they want to talk to Kurt, who was in communication with Finn just before he had . . . died.

"You were the last person who he talked to" Officer Bergen says as they sit down at the kitchen table. Carole and Burt both leave, reluctantly, their thoughts on the floral arrangements, and Kurt is itching to get back in there and make sure they don't do something tasteless in their grief and shock.

Kurt resists the urge to correct the man's grammar. He had seen the look of distaste on the Officer's face as soon as he'd realised this was indeed the same Hummel family, with the gay kid, who was always making these nonsense complaints about 'alleged harassment' and such. He winces at the newfound knowledge and clenches his hands into fists again. He has permanent half-moons imprinted on his palms, from the force with which his nails have been digging in.

"You two were arguing?" There is accusation in his voice.

"And you think that somehow, several hundred miles away, I managed to orchestrate his untimely demise?" Kurt sneers, flinching at the thought. He metaphorically flexes his perfectly-sharpened claws.

"No, Kurt, that's not what we're saying" Officer Stiles reassures him with a look at his partner, "not at all."

Kurt's steely gaze remains fixed on Bergen; the man is taking on a master, and he will go down if he continues this line of questioning.

It's a universal construct; the stupid always continue. "You were pissed at him, your text messages were very clearly threatening his well-being. You seem like a resourceful kind of guy. How do we know you didn't call up a friend over here, have them do your dirty work?" he sneers.

"Well for starters" Kurt begins, wondering how long he can hold his temper before letting it all come gushing out, "you could check my phone records, and even my phone itself, although if your accusation is based on none other than your out-dated and obvious homophobia and prejudice, then no judge is ever going to grant you a warrant-"

"You're the last person he talked to before he died" Bergen interrupts. "You really think I can't get a warrant? People like _you_?" he sneers again, his disdain obvious, "you think you're so entitled, 'cause you're different? You think you're so damn special? You're nothing but a frigging fairy. I know how you lot work. You got connexions. You crook your little finger" he makes a derogatory gesture with his hand, "and think you're above the rules, and you wouldn't think nothing of orchestrating something like this, and for what? 'Cause your brother was out having a good time? Maybe you were jealous, eh, wanted him all for yourself?"

The hatred spews, and normally Kurt would be able to rebut in fine form, leaving this ignorant son-of-a-bitch sliced cleanly in two, but today, mere hours after learning of his brother's untimely demise, he can't. The hatred and bigotry cuts him to the core, just one more reminder of why he had never gotten anywhere in this Godforsaken cow-town, and why he had never wanted to return.

And why isn't his Dad marching in here and kicking the bastard out?

"Hey, Allan, easy now" Stiles warns his partner.

Kurt stands, eyes flashing. "My _brother_ just _died_, and the last words I ever exchanged with him were in anger, not to mention the call I didn't pick up. This is now my reality. So the next time you want to talk to me, let me know in advance so I can have my lawyer present. Have I mentioned he works with the ACLU? Or that my Father is a United States Congressman? What do you think would happen to your career if those bigoted, insulting accusations you just hurled my way went public, hmm?"

He's gathering steam, and the imbecile is too astonished to stop him.

"You'd be ruined, that's what. You're still in the exact same position as you were ten years ago, when you first answered call-outs to the Hummel house, and never did a damn thing about it, despite overwhelming evidence? Why do you think you've spent your entire, mind-numbing career doing the same, mindless thing, never once advancing, never getting any promotions beyond mandatory ones? You're an uneducated, ignorant boor who's never bothered with anything beyond the reach of your substantial beer belly" Kurt sneers, sending a scathing glare at the offending body part in question. "You're nothing but a worn-down, washed-out nobody who's spent the last thirty years attempting to live off the glory of your high school football career, which all went down in some two-bit town nobody's ever heard of, a career that faded away the instant you graduated and went on to nowhere with your life, and you're jealous of me, because I escaped and got out of here, and everything you and all your narrow-minded, Neanderthal colleagues thought about me? Well, that's everything I'm on the cusp of getting."

Kurt rises. "You aren't welcome here again. Next time your department wants to try and determine what actually happened to my brother, as opposed to chasing a hick-town's worn-out prejudices, tell them to send someone with enough neurons left that actually still remember how to fire."

He stalks from the room, but pauses at the door. "And those pants? Make you look a good ten kilos heavier than you actually are. Which, considering your weight, isn't actually that substantial. I trust you to see yourselves out."

His nose is in the air, chin up as he sweeps majestically from the room, pleased with his diatribe, heart cracking at the wounds the reason for its necessity has re-opened. He flees to his room and throws himself on the bed, finally unable to hold it all in any longer.

Why did his Dad not appear?

* * *

Carole's parents arrive the next day. Kurt has met them a few times, but both Ellen and Harold are religious and old-fashioned, which means they're not inclined to be open and accepting of their daughter's new step-son. As soon as Carole had realised this, visits had become few and far between, as she had staunchly supported Kurt and had warned her parents to learn to do the same.

Kurt is nervous, because both of Finn's biological families are not particularly open-minded, but he knows he can suck it up and keep his mouth shut for a few days, until they are all gone again. He busies himself doing what he does best, cooking and organising and planning. He had pulled an entire, fabulous wedding together in barely two weeks after all, and funerals are always whirlwinds anyway, so he's not worried.

No, he's stressed and every breath sort of feels like it hurts, and his heart doesn't seem to be able to beat quite properly, and everywhere he looks is a reminder of what happened, and what no longer is, of what's been tragically taken from them, a life that's been cut far too short, and there is this constant, roiling, burning feeling in his stomach. He's gone through three bottles of Tums in the three days since he's been home.

* * *

The New Directions, old and new, meet up at Artie's again the next night. Within the few days since hearing the news, Mercedes and Quinn have returned, and Mike is on his way as soon as he can sort a few things out with school. Kurt goes this time, trying not to squeeze Blaine's hand too tightly as he enters the familiar house. Because it's wheelchair-accessible, there have been a lot of New Directions parties and get-togethers here over the years.

Artie's Mom hugs him tightly; she's such a sweetheart. Artie's Dad hesitates, then hugs him too, and it's awfully comforting, so Kurt pulls away quickly before he loses it. The man likes the same ugly, puffy vests as Finn. He's hard-pressed to determine which vested monstrosity is worse; the tucked-in sweater-vests Artie favours, or the puffy, formless ones worn by Mr. Abrams. Both parents murmur kind words, and Kurt woodenly offers the correct response before Blaine rescues him and pulls him into the large den where they always have their gatherings.

And then he's being passed around, hugged too tightly (and wetly) by every girl. Quinn is understandably taking it rather hard, and for some reason Kurt doesn't quite understand, Marley seems to be as well; he remembers Finn saying something about looking out for her a bit the way Mr. Schue had with Rachel, but he's not sure. Santana is there, her normal bitchiness toned down almost to tears. Brittany seems confused, going around and hugging everyone who's crying in a sweet but futile effort to cheer things up. Rachel is markedly absent; she's been in seclusion with her Dads almost since getting back here, although she's certainly been a presence at the Hudmel household, trying to push everyone to do things her way.

Sometimes, she finds it too easy to forget that she isn't the only one who loves Finn.

A drink is pressed into his hand, and since he's not driving, Kurt doesn't much care. It's strong, and just maybe, it'll help him sleep tonight, in the room across from Finn's, the lack of explosions, something he's always longed for (and yelled for) suddenly rendering him unable to doze off.

He downs it quickly, and his glass is hurriedly refilled. People come and talk to him, but he doesn't register much. He is lost in memories, his gaze scanning the room that is so full of reminders of his brother. He has hardly ever been here without Finn; not really 'one of the guys', he had never been included in their video game marathons. Nor had he been particularly close to Artie, because those suspenders that go overtop those hideous sweaters that are _tucked into slacks_ have always been just too much for him to take. No one could have been expected to bear that in silence.

And so, to him, this room belongs to _all_ of them, and the absence, just as it is at home, is marked. His eyes fall on the dent on the wall, low and close to the door where Finn had kicked a baseball, sprained his big toe (and consequently hopped around yelling in pain), and instead of it getting to Puck, it had sailed past and whacked into the wall, luckily missing the many large, bay windows that form half the walls of the room.

And no, he's not going to remember just _why_ Finn had thought it was a good idea to _kick a baseball inside the house_.

He will remember Rachel's startled, ear-piercing shriek, and how Santana had immediately redirected her rage to the smaller girl, claiming she was going to break all the windows anyway.

Maybe he just needs to re-work all his memories, so that he forgets about the _Finn_ of them all.

Puck comes over after a while, red solo cup in his hand, and he's obviously had a lot to drink already. He stands beside Kurt, who suddenly feels bigger than the other boy, and that's surprising. No words are exchanged; they merely stand there, shoulder-to-shoulder (yet _another_ first in this weird, parallel universe), and Kurt's not sure what they are trying to accomplish, because they certainly aren't seeking comfort. There's none of that to be had.

Perhaps it's just the shared pain that neither are yet able to verbalise. Maybe it's knowing that they'd both seen (or heard from, as the case may be) Finn in his final hours. It's a twisted camaraderie they share, both of them blaming themselves, wracking their brains for something they can no longer change.

"This is fucking depressing." Puck speaks after a good twenty minutes, eyes distant, glazed.

Kurt doesn't answer; what can he say to that? He had hoped that this would help somehow, although he's not sure how. Perhaps all of them sitting together and sharing memories, or singing songs? Pain makes him sharp and turns his sarcasm almost cruel when he's not careful. Because sitting in a damn circle and singing 'Kumbaya' isn't going to do anything, not when he's this caustic, trying his utmost not to lash out at anything and everything, so as only to feel some release.

"You wanna blow this joint, get wasted?" Puck asks after another few minutes, his red solo cup now crushed in his hand.

Huh. Kurt has never been one for drinking his emotions away, not since that fiasco back in sophomore year with April Rhodes. It had scared him to realise just how easily he could come to depend on something to help boost his always-precarious courage, and he'd sworn off anything back then.

On the other hand, why the hell not? If ever there is a time that has called for getting blind drunk, this is most definitely it. "Oh, yeah." He doesn't know that he's ever wanted anything more, certainly something that is attainable. The intensity of his roiling emotions and grief is scary, worse than when his Mother had died, and he's willing to do anything to get rid of it, even for a little while.

They've both been drinking, and Artie's Dad won't return Puck's keys, so they call a cab, and end up in Puck's studio he's renting, near the community college. There's already quite the stash of alcohol, both beer and much harder liquors, and Kurt briefly wonders if this is always present, or if it's more recent, as in, the last few days.

Doesn't matter, really. The endgame is oblivion, and how they get there doesn't matter.

They plunk themselves down on the floor, and Kurt needs to turn some music on, because the silence is driving him crazy. He finally tunes it to a station playing hits from the twenties and thirties, because at least there are no memories in those tunes. Puck has already cracked open a beer, but when he offers Kurt a can, the teenager shakes his head.

"I need more kick." He reaches instead for the half-full bottle of clear fire-water, and it is testament to just how distraught he is, that he forgoes a glass and gulps straight from the bottle, not even caring about the plethora of bacteria and germs festering. It's strong enough to kill anything anyhow.

"Didn't think you had it in you, Princess" Puck nods admiringly. He guzzles the rest of the beer down, and swings out a hand, fingers making grabby motions almost whacking Kurt in the arm.

Kurt downs another swig before passing it over, proud of how he doesn't gasp and choke over the strong whisky. He stares at his surroundings, thinking how glad he is he doesn't room with a guy like Puck. Every single frat-boy, college stereotype is crammed into this room, from the alcohol, the funnel, the posters, the mess. If this had been any other time, he wouldn't have allowed his clothes to touch _anything_ in here, never mind the floor (because Gaga knows Puck's never washed it), but he's quickly remembering the awesome power of grief to make everything else irrelevant.

And if he can still think this clearly and this eloquently, then he hasn't had nearly enough to drink. He snatches the bottle and quickly downs far more than even the most hardened alcoholic ever should in one go. If he's lucky, he can drink himself into oblivion tonight; he knows it's the only way he'll ever be able to get anything resembling sleep.

"Wanna kill some bad guys?" Puck nods at his gaming station.

That sounds like just what he needs. "I'm feeling very violent" Kurt nods emphatically, taking another swig before passing it back to Puck.

"Here." Puck doesn't ask if Kurt knows how to play. The countertenor may not enjoy video games, but he . . . had . . . a brother and a boyfriend that did, and on the odd occasion they'd roped him into playing (read: bribed), he'd surprised them all with his prowess.

Kurt takes the console as Puck queues up the game. He chooses the most lethal-looking character he can find, and proceeds to annihilate anything and everything he can. He's pleased Puck seems to be on the same wavelength, because when they go online to play against some other opponents, it doesn't take them long to destroy everything there is.

They destroy it all, just like life has suddenly destroyed them, and there's nothing they can do about any of it, so they sit their and kill and maim as though their lives depend on it, because maybe they do.

* * *

The next day, of course, is not so pleasant. Kurt has a hangover the size of Rachel's ego, and even several hours later, freshly showered, a litre of water already ingested, and four Advil in his still-churning stomach, he still feels like Hell.

Neither his Father nor Carole had said much when he'd finally surfaced mid-morning, and it makes Kurt suddenly wonder, again, if just maybe, they wouldn't rather that Finn was the surviving son. It's ridiculous, he knows, they've both made sure he's never doubted their love, but this has changed . . . everything.

"Let them sing" Burt is saying to his wife as Kurt enters to pour himself a coffee. "Finn loved music, loved singing and Glee and the freedom it gave him to express themselves. Hell, they sang at our wedding" he reminds her.

Kurt's hand spasms around the mug and he nearly drops it, remembering the song Finn had sung to him, the affirmation that who he is was not only okay, but better than okay. Wonderful, even.

"I know" Carole sniffs. Her eyes have been red-rimmed, her face puffy for days. "And that's exactly why. It's always been such happiness for him, I don't think I can bear it."

Kurt moves to sit at the table, realising what they're planning. "He didn't just sing when he was happy" he says quietly, his voice hoarse, and he wants nothing more than to spike this coffee and continue on yesterday's forgetting streak. "It's an outlet for all emotion." And more than that, he thinks that they all need to be able to serenade Finn, they _need_ to be able to express themselves through that which had brought them all together in the first place.

Carole draws in a shaky breath. "I know" she replies, reaching out to wrap her hand around Kurt's trembling ones, and the look in her grief-stricken eyes makes him realise that she knows exactly what he did last night, and is giving him the space he needs until he comes to terms with himself. "But it's going to make everyone lose it."

"Maybe that's good" Burt speaks up, reaching one hand out to his son, and the other to his wife, completing the circle. "We can grieve together, and afterwards the Berrys have offered to host a get-together at their place, so we can celebrate his life there." Burt knows that's what this funeral needs to be, because the passing is already so tragic, there needs to be some light in there somewhere. And after Elizabeth had died, he'd found solace in remembering the good, only it had taken him a long time to get there. He's hoping that this time, it'll be easier, because they've all had a bit of practice at this grief thing.

"I know you're right" Carole admits, squeezing both her men's hands. "I'm just being selfish."

"No, Carole, you have every right to be as selfish as you want right now" Kurt quickly hastens to reassure her. She's the one that has lost her son, after all. "You do whatever you need to do to be okay again." Because one day she will be, they all will be, because even the deepest wounds eventually scar over.

Carole squeezes Kurt's hand again. "You are a Godsend, Kurt. When did you get to be so wise?"

_Since I lost my Mom, almost lost my Dad twice, and I'm terrified I've lost Blaine too_. "I've always been this wise." The light-hearted quip hurts, it's so forced, but he knows it's needed.

His Dad squeezes his hand too, and no words are needed.

"So we'll tell the Berrys they can host something after the funeral" Burt says, eyes on his wife.

She nods wordlessly, lower lip trembling briefly. Kurt has to look away, because her grief is too palpable, and the effort of holding everything in is only increasing the pounding in his head. He's had a headache for days now.

"Have you given any thought to the eulogy?" Burt asks gently, and Kurt knows Carole's been stuck on this particular part of the planning.

She looks so broken as she answers. "I can't, I know I can't do it, I'm too close."

"No one expects you to" Kurt tells her softly, shifting his hand so he can now squeeze hers.

"I just don't know who to ask" she admits. "Maybe I'll ask you guys to sing it" she ponders. "I mean, no one's been closer to him than everyone in Glee club, but I don't know if I can ask that of you." She breaks the circle to grab for more Kleenex.

The day he'd come home, Kurt had gone on a Kleenex-shopping spree, buying several dozen boxes and placing them on every flat surface in the house, along with little plastic stick-on baggies for disposal. He's amazed at how fast they're going.

"You can" he says earnestly. "You can, because that's how we've always dealt with everything. We sing our emotions, and it helps, because music touches people on a level that words can't." He blinks glassy eyes.

"I think it might be good for them" Burt adds, "if that's what you want."

"Rachel definitely already has a eulogy written" Kurt adds wryly, because he knows his friend, and he can truly understand how badly she's hurting right now. Perhaps they need to have a wine and musical-themed evening tonight, or tomorrow.

Carole emits a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, shaking her head at Rachel's . . . well, _Rachelness_. "I want it to be about Finn, not Finchel" she says, struggling to get the words out. She hesitates, then, "I know I don't have the right to ask this of you, Kurt" she begins.

"You do" he encourages her.

"I think maybe you're the one who's spent the most time with him, who knows him best, all his sides, and who could deliver something worthy of him. Would you be willing to give the eulogy?" she asks tentatively.

Kurt gasps, shocked.

"And don't you feel like you have to, Kiddo" Burt speaks up, glancing at his wife.

"No, no, absolutely not" Carole agrees quickly. "This is only if you want, if you think you can. If you accept, I'd be honoured, and if you decline, then I'll ask the Glee club to do it."

Kurt blinks, a little taken aback at the request. He supposes it makes a lot of sense, the brother being asked to do this. "Neither of your families are going to agree." There's a lot of homophobia in there, as well as the feeling that Kurt is 'only' the step-brother, not blood-related and therefore not of any real importance.

"I don't care about that" Carole says fiercely. "You're my son, you're Finn's brother, and if they don't like it, they're no longer welcome." She had gotten sick of everyone hovering, and kicked them all out of the house earlier today. He'd never been more grateful to wake to an empty house.

Kurt doesn't know if some will be returning to sleep or what, and he also doesn't care. His eyes water again at her words, and he wonders when it will ever stop. "I'm so, so honoured, Carole" he begins slowly, gaze focussed on his coffee mug, knowing he needs to escape and sleep for a while. His stomach is feeling distinctly unsettled at the moment. "Can – can I think about it for a bit?"

She nods emphatically. "Of course, Sweetheart. And I won't be insulted or upset if you say no, honestly." She flips their grip again so her hand is around his. "Like you just told me, you do whatever you need to, to be okay again."

Okay, he can't do this any more. Kurt Hummel is made of steel, he knows that, but even the strongest of metals has its breaking point, and he's far-too rapidly reaching his. "I have to go."

He flees, making a pit stop in his bathroom to empty his stomach, again, before collapsing on his bed.

He wonders why the universe seems to have it in for him.

* * *

He's at his laptop, writing furiously, when the knock on the door disturbs him. "Why are the cops here, wanting to offer you a formal apology?" Burt asks worriedly.

Kurt had almost forgotten about that entire incident, and he winces, glancing at his screen once more before turning to face his Father, swiping his hand across his damp eyes as he does so. He knows he's not fooling anyone, but he still has the need to maintain the façade. "It's nothing, Dad. I'll just go see what they want."

"They want to apologise to you, and it seems like they're pretty desperate for you _not_ to make a formal complaint" Burt says, stepping further into the room. He turns down the music playing softly from the speakers, because it just sounds too tragic for him to deal with right now.

"That was Patty Lupone, Dad" Kurt complains. One does not simply turn off _Les Mis_.

"She'll keep." Burt sits on the bed, making it clear that he won't. Kurt needs to be reminded who the Father and who the son is in this relationship. His boy has always been far too mature and independent for his age; losing his Mom at the tender age of eight did that to him. He quirks an eyebrow in encouragement.

Kurt sighs, deflating, mind whirling as he tries to figure out how to best tell his Dad without telling him everything.

"Kurt." Something had obviously happened the first time they'd talked to Kurt, and Burt is kicking himself for not staying, like he should have. But at nineteen, the officers had had every right to speak to Kurt alone, even to order Burt away. He shouldn't have let them, he realises now, too late.

"It's nothing. One of the officers allowed his small-minded brain to run away with him and he threw out some outlandish theories, and I called him on it." Kurt is still proud of his tongue-lashing. It had felt so good to spew back some of the hatred and intolerance he'd been on the receiving end of for so long.

Burt narrows his eyes. "He was a homophobic asshole" he translates astutely, feeling his ire grow within.

"No, Dad, it was just a misunderstanding" Kurt tries to soothe him, eyes suddenly wide. His Dad can't get upset.

"Don't lie to me, Kurt. It was much more than a 'misunderstanding' if they're here to apologise. You think I haven't been dealing with this town's homophobia right along with you? Hell, I was dealing with it before you even realised what 'gay' meant." Burt shakes his head in dismay. "Did they accuse you of something 'cause you were gay?" he asks.

"No, Dad, please, don't get upset, it's nothing" Kurt repeats desperately. "You need to stay calm. I'll take care of it, don't worry."

Burt frowns, confused. He doesn't understand where his kid is coming from. "It's not nothing, and you've gotta stop downplaying this sort of crap. You don't need to protect me, Kiddo, we're in this together."

Any other time, Kurt would make another _High School Musical_ reference, but he can't right now. "Yes, I do! That's how we work, Dad, I take care of you, and you eat healthy and exercise and take your meds and follow your doctor's instructions to the letter!" His voice is far higher and shakier than he would like by the end.

_Oh_. And just like that, Burt gets it. He pushes himself to his feet, and in two strides has Kurt held tightly in his arms, not missing the way the teenager ducks his head to rest it overtop his heart and listen to its steady beat. "I will _always_ be here for you, Kurt. I'm never going to leave you, just like your Mom never truly left you, and just like Finn hasn't truly left us."

He cannot promise what he wants, because he knows chances are, he will die before Kurt. He knows, chances are, that his heart or the cancer will get him before his time, but he has good years left, lots if he's lucky, and burying one's parent is a sad fact of life. Unfortunately, doing so at eight years old, and then nearly having to do so, twice, again as a teenager, can leave scars.

Kurt shudders and gulps back hard on the tears. "I can't lose you too, Dad, I _can't_" he admits desperately, because it's been the _only_ constant in his difficult life, the only thing that's always been there for him, keeping him going.

"One day you will, Kiddo, that's just the way it is" Burt says matter-of-factly, "but if I have anything to say about it, and believe me I do, it's not going to be for a very long time yet. I've got too much still to do, still to see. My heart is pretty strong, it's still beating, isn't it?"

Kurt nods against the soft, horrid flannel of his Dad's shirt.

"So, we're gonna talk about this more later, but right now _we've_ got some police officers waiting to talk to you" Burt says, emphasising the 'we' of it all, because he won't be kicked out this time, not when it concerns his sons. "Okay?"

Kurt pulls in a shaky breath, but nods again.

"You're not alone Kiddo, but you've gotta let others help you." Burt squeezes the slender form one last time, and they descend the stairs together.

The meeting is good. Burt does a lot of glaring, and the two officers (neither the one who actually _did_ the deed) do a lot of grovelling, and then he supervises closely as they question Kurt about the last few hours of Finn's life, because he had been in contact with Kurt, so naturally they want to know as much as they can.

They're still waiting for the coroner's report, but apparently the autopsy (and here both Hummel men shudder again) was scheduled for today, so preliminary results should be coming in soon. They don't suspect foul play, but they're not sure what it was. Or if they are, they're not telling yet. But most importantly, they treat Kurt with the respect he deserves, and the news that Officer Bergen has been suspended pending an inquiry is certainly welcome.

"Thank you, Kurt" Officer Stiles says, closing his notebook. Some things will never change, Burt thinks wryly.

Kurt has remained stoic throughout the questioning, although he suspects his Dad knows just how hard he has fought to do so. He doesn't reply, because he's still deeply hurt by the entire incident, by years of harassment and abuse that had gone unanswered for the simple reason that he is gay, the same reason the department tried to pin his brother's untimely demise on his shoulders. No, forgiveness isn't that quick in coming. "I hope this helped" he says honestly.

"Every little bit helps" Officer Stiles assures him. "We'll be in touch. And once again, I'm so sorry about the last time."

It's hollow coming from the guy who mostly stood by and allowed it to happen, but it's something.

Kurt lifts his chin. "Actions speak louder than words" he reminds the man. "Education is power, and it's long past time that this town realised it's no longer the 1800s, and witch-burning is no longer sanctioned."

The second man, Officer O'Malley, twitches, his mouth threatening to break into a smile, as it has numerous times to one of Kurt's smart remarks. "Noted" he says, poker face back in place.

"If homophobia is taken seriously by the officials who keep the law, then the people have to take it seriously as well" Kurt says, "because, just like in the rest of the civilised world, they are punished for their crimes. They need to learn, and someone needs to grow a pair and lay down the law, as it were." He's very impressed at the polite tone in which he manages to convey his thoughts, because he's been wanting to get this off his chest for years, and the rants in his head had never been so polite. They had been much more interesting, though, and had always involved much grovelling, à la _Joseph_. Somehow, the soundtrack to this has always featured 'grovel grovel, grovel grovel, grovel grovel, grovel grovel' in the background on repeat.

He's been shoving this in their faces since the start of this meeting, and he's impressed with how well they've been taking it. He'd watched both their faces carefully throughout, searching for the telltale signs of latent disgust he knows so well, but had really seen none. He knows they're good actors, but he also knows that the majority of lawmen in small towns don't bother hiding their true feelings, because they have so much power they don't have to.

That's not the case here, and that's the only reason he hasn't torn them a new one.

They shake hands and leave, and Burt eyes his son as he closes the door behind them, lifting a brow. "Finally got that off your chest, huh?" he says knowingly. He'd wanted to add his two cents' worth as well, but had refrained, knowing this was Kurt's turn. Finally. As a Congressman, he's going to have his own say, of course, and it'll be something along the lines of requiring _all_ police departments to include training seminars on the issues faced by the LGBT community. It's something Kurt's said before, in passing, and now Burt finally has the power to make it happen, and make things better for all the Kurts out there.

"Yeah" Kurt breathes out, eyes distant for a moment too long. He pulls himself back though.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there last time they came, Kiddo" Burt apologises. He hates that his grief for one son got in the way of being a good Dad to the other. No matter what they do now, Finn's gone and he's not coming back. But Kurt, Kurt's still here, and he thinks maybe he and Carole need to pay a little more attention to what they still have.

"It's fine. I'm an adult, Dad, I can take care of myself" Kurt replies.

Burt shakes his head. "You're always going to be my kid" he responds, stepping forward to pull Kurt in for a hug, needing the comfort of his child, alive, in his arms. He cannot imagine how Carole is holding up as well as she is, knowing she'll never have this again. Scratch that, he can imagine it all too well. It's something he's feared for years, ever since he and Elizabeth had realised just how different Kurt was, and just how badly Lima, Ohio was going to take it. Sometimes, the Father still cannot believe how lucky he is that he still has Kurt.

The teenager's hands clench around the fabric of Burt's shirt as he buries his head there for a moment. Kurt doesn't remain there long, however, because he knows he will lose it if he does, and that's the last thing his Dad and Carole need.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I gave Finn a COD here, because I feel it's important to help everyone have 'closure'. I didn't go with the OD route, but chose something plausible that won't . . . and I don't mean this wrong, 'tarnish' Finn's memory somehow. Cory's untimely demise has the potential to be a cautionary tale and a lesson, or to overshadow all the good that he embodied, so I chose to steer clear from that in here.**

**Warning: Homophobia, and a Klaine sex scene. It's watered down from its original version, but it's rough and raw and still there, so if you want to skip over it, it's the last/second scene in this chapter. PM me and I can send you a version without, but I felt the scene needed to be there.**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Finn had died from a brain aneurysm. He'd been drinking heavily, and the M.E. thinks that likely contributed, but the bottom line is, pending toxicology results, an important artery in Finn's brain had had a weakness that had been there from birth, a time bomb waiting to happen that none of them could have known about. It had survived all the concussions from football in high school, and only moments after Kurt had refused to answer his brother's call, it had given up the fight and burst.

The M.E. assures them that Finn never knew what happened. There may have been a moment of pain or confusion, but it had been pretty much instantaneous.

There's absolutely nothing that anyone could have done to prevent it. Had they known about it, it likely wouldn't have been operable, and Kurt thinks back for a moment to _Everwood_, and the great, fictional Dr. Brown, and wonders if Finn's story would have ended up being just like Colin Hart's. Maybe if life were a TV show, but then things hadn't worked on on-screen either.

Driving Carole's car back to their hollow home, his Dad comforting the weeping woman in the back seat, Kurt wonders if this isn't worse than having a concrete reason. Finn had been young and healthy and so full of life, and right from the start, he'd never even had a chance. He'd been doomed from the beginning, destined from before birth to never fulfil his potential.

They're lucky to have had him as long as they did.

His jaw is set, head pounding, again, but no tears fall as he navigates the roads to the house that is no longer a home. Carole is absolutely distraught in the back seat, and his Dad looks like this may have broken him.

When they pull up in the drive only to see the cars of several not-exactly-welcome relatives parked there as well, Burt emits a loud groan, because this is the last thing they need.

"Shall I get rid of them?" Kurt offers. He recognises the vehicles for both sets of grand-parents (he only hopes he can stand that many matching, pastel polyester sweater sets), and Carole's sister, Anne. At least she's not homophobic.

Carole shakes her head against Burt's chest, and Kurt thinks maybe she just wants her own parents to hold her, so he slides from the driver's seat, and together the two men flank her as they make their way inside.

Carole's Mother instantly pushes Kurt out of the way, shooting him a nasty glance as she takes his place and ushers her daughter to the sofa. He wrinkles his nose at the horrible, muted bluish sweater-set she's wearing, as it literally hurts his eyes, and instead goes to the kitchen, thinking some comforting drink will help them. He makes the hot chocolate thick and creamy, and includes some mini marshmallows as well. He arranges some grapes, apple slices, Brie, and oatmeal-cinnamon cookies on a plate, and carries the tray out to the living room, ignoring Grandmother Ellen's scornful look.

"What the hell is this?" Grandfather Harold, Carole's Father, sneers distastefully.

It takes everything Kurt has not to let something incredibly bitchy and rude out. "I thought we could all use something comforting." He directs this to his parents, and Burt's eyes soften.

"This some big gay thing?" Grandfather Harold cuts in before Burt can say a word. "Real men drink coffee."

Kurt's eyes flash as the man's wife eyes the tray distastefully, not even reaching out to touch a mug for her daughter, evidently still terrified of 'catching the gay.' With his emotions already so strung out, the countertenor is already impressed with himself for taking it this long. "A real man doesn't need to cruelly and insensitively insult and belittle that which he does not understand; instead he has the balls to admit his ignorance and change that" he snips, trying to keep his voice steady, flicking his eyes disdainfully up and down the ugly, unimaginative clothing that bags on the man's large frame.

"This is not a choice that any man can condone, not a _real_ man." His gaze darts sideways to Burt, and said man's son sees red.

"That's my husband and my son!" Carole snaps, pulling out of her sobbing trance. She's a tragic, woebegone figure, but her swollen, reddened eyes are sparking, despite the tears still flowing down. "I've told you more times than I can count, if you cannot accept them, then you aren't welcome here. There's enough hatred and intolerance out in the world, we don't need it in here too. Especially not now." Her voice cracks.

Grandfather Harold looks like he's about to say something, but his wife shushes him, just as she has every other time. Kurt knows it's not true acceptance, it's just them not wanting to fight with their daughter right now, thinking she's not in her right mind, and loving her more than they hate him.

He can live with that, because he can see that Carole needs her Mother right now. It makes him realise just how much he wants his own right now, and he swallows down hard on that feeling, because he just doesn't have the space for any more right now, there's already too much grief in his slender frame.

"There, there, Carole, things are really difficult right now, and tempers are short" Grandmother Ellen soothes, glaring briefly at Kurt before turning her attentions back to her daughter, who's clutching Burt's hand and once again wrapping herself in her Mother.

Burt reaches defiantly out and snags two mugs of hot chocolate, his gaze remaining fixed on Grandfather Henry for a moment. "You want one, Carole?" he asks, touching her shoulder gently.

She shudders but nods. "Thank you." She closes a trembling hand around the warm mug and inhales its comforting scent. "That you, Kurt" she manages to add, pulling herself briefly together for the sake of the son that is left behind, because she cannot allow herself to forget him in her grief.

"Ellen?" Burt offers, eyebrows raised almost as if in a challenge.

She stares at him for a tense moment, her eyes flicking ever-so-briefly to her husband, before nodding shortly. "Yes." She takes the mug but makes no attempt to acknowledge Kurt in any way.

Grandfather Harold refuses with a sneer, and is left without anything to drink, as he hasn't mastered the simple art of pushing a button on their automatic coffee machine. He's old-fashioned almost to the point of bordering on ridiculous sometimes, fiercely holding onto the past. Kurt has wondered over it before, if maybe he's afraid of being obsolete in a generation that is so different from his own, but he's found it hard to be compassionate towards a man who abhors what he is. Right now though, he really could not care less. The man had essentially cast his daughter (and only grand-son) out when he'd learnt they'd be marrying 'into the gay'.

And Kurt had spent long hours with his new step-brother, trying to explain 'his' world to a teenager who'd never truly experienced what it was like, being hated and feared and banned simply for who you were. The entire incident had left a deep scar on Finn's heart, and had changed him fundamentally; the little boy who, at the end of the day, had always believed that the good guys would come out on top, had realised that it wasn't always the case.

To this day, Kurt is still pissed at the man for doing that to the always somewhat-innocent and clueless Finn. He's always loved that childish part of his brother.

_Had_.

Finn is in the past tense now. He's no longer a part of their present, and will never be a part of their future, aside from visits to his grave, and memories. He was never even _meant_ to be a part of their lives. The coroner himself had said it was a miracle he'd lived this long, especially considering his clumsiness and football career. Finn has . . . had . . . a big heart and Kurt wonders if maybe that heart kept things going even when his brain tried to shut it down, until it just couldn't anymore. His heart swells and clenches painfully, and he refuses to let himself show any iota of weakness in front of these two bigots, so he instead sets his empty mug carefully back on the tray and absolutely does not flee up to his room.

Shit.

Everything just feels so . . . it's too much. This latest encounter seems to be playing the role of that poor camel's straw, because Kurt honestly feels like he's about to have a panic attack, and the thought terrifies him. He huddles in the corner of his room, knees scrunched to his chest, pillow hugged between them and his torso, and tries to focus on the breathing techniques his therapist had taught him. He closes his eyes, trying to push the overwhelming, crazy, agonising, whirlwind thoughts from his brain, because if he doesn't shut it down now, he's going to have a full-out panic attack, and that's not something he ever wants to experience again.

It's been nearly two years since he last had one, and in this hell-week alone, he's already experienced two, and he knows the count will be up at three in the very near future.

Despite his best efforts, his breathing is quickening, and the sweat is beading on his brow, and oh Gaga, it's too much, he cannot stop the train-wreck of thoughts from invading his brain, and even as he squeezes his eyes shut, he's falling over the proverbial ledge.

* * *

It's nearly ten minutes by the time he gets back to himself, and he's a quivering, trembling, tear-streaked, runny-nosed mess. He knows it'll be another ten minutes or so until he has himself together enough to be able to move to the bathroom and freshen up, so he simply allows the tears to continue leaking down his cheeks.

They aren't tears of grief, not this time. Somehow, this news about Finn's cause of . . . Gaga . . . _death_ . . . feels like it's taken everything out of him, and the tears are simply flowing because he's so exhausted, it's easier than holding back.

When he's finally able to move again, he drags himself on trembling legs into the bathroom and showers, succumbing to the urge to sit down. Then, because he just needs a break from it all, he calls Blaine (whose parents are, as usual, not home), and makes the drive to his . . . is this really a booty-call? . . . house. He doesn't often get like this. His libido had basically been non-existent until a few months after he and Blaine had started dating, but now, he suddenly has the desperate urge to feel something, _anything_ other than this bleak, never-ending emptiness.

Blaine seems to have sensed what Kurt needs, because he too is freshly-showered when he opens the door, curls loose and free of any product, just how Kurt loves them, dressed in a simple t-shirt (that clings oh-so beautifully) and dark-wash jeans, feet bare. Just the sight of him is absolutely intoxicating to Kurt, and he moans before stepping boldly into the house and crashing his lips against Blaine's, backing him until they hit the wall.

"Kurt" the other teenager moans in reply, kissing with equal fervour, hands roaming across Kurt's back before one reaches down and cups his ass.

"Mmm, Blaine." He tastes so good, he smells so good, he feels so good, this is honestly like coming home, and as badly as he needs this primal human connexion at the moment, Kurt still cannot imagine doing this with anyone other than Blaine. His tongue plunders the curly-haired boy's mouth, and his lips devour as one hand comes up to run his fingers through the damp, curling locks. "I . . ."

His voice trails off, because he doesn't know what he wants to say; there's too much, and yet nothing all at once.

"Upstairs" Kurt decides, and a distant part of his mind recognises and loves Blaine for simply handing over all control in this encounter, somehow just knowing how much he needs it.

They arrive there in a flurry of desperate kisses, and Kurt's already managed to suck two hickeys onto Blaine's wonderful-smelling neck by the time he pushes his lover into the room and kicks the door shut. He's not gentle as he practically rips Blaine's clothes off, the other teenager having chosen them because he had sensed this would be the outcome of today's visit.

He pushes a fully-naked Blaine back on the bed, barely even pausing to admire his beautiful, olive-toned skin, smooth muscles rippling and quivering with anticipation, lovely manhood standing at attention and waiting for his ministrations. The back of his mind registers all this, but he is too consumed by need, need to touch and feel, and mostly to just feel _anything_ other than this hollow, echoing emptiness.

Kurt dives back in, his lips devouring Blaine as they move across the body they know so well, instinctively finding every hot-spot, every pressure point that drives Blaine wild.

This is so hot. Blaine knows that this is less about his and Kurt's connexion, and more about his best friend dealing with his maelstrom of emotions, but it's still so freaking hot. There's a fire in those pale glasz eyes he's never seen before, a burning intent, and even if it's for selfish reasons, having it focussed on his body as its outlet is incredible. It's only been a few minutes, and he's already a writhing, moaning, sweaty mess.

Blaine bucks involuntarily up as Kurt's mouth reaches travels lower and envelops him in that hot, wet cavern. He knows this round will be over pretty quickly, but luckily they're horny, insatiable teenagers. His hips jolt again as one of Kurt's hands move lower, caressing him, teasing him.

The countertenor raises a brow. "Eager much?"

It takes a moment for Blaine to formulate a coherent response that resembles something more than an appreciative grunt. "Pot, meet kettle."

"Point" Kurt acknowledges, licking a long, narrow stripe that makes Blaine cry out. The part of his brain he still isn't ready to acknowledge is marvelling at how gorgeous Blaine looks like this, and it's such a turn-on that it's all because of him.

But then he shuts that down, because this is nothing more than a booty-call, he recognises that. He fumbles awkwardly for Blaine's top drawer, his position crouched between the other boy's legs making it impossible for him to reach his goal.

Luckily, Blaine knows what he's looking for, but as Kurt hollows his cheeks and sucks whilst simultaneously pressing on that one spot, he loses it and with a cry, comes long and hard into Kurt's mouth.

He's _missed_ this _so_ freaking much.

Kurt is smirking as Blaine manages to focus his eyes again. "C'mere." A Dalton tie would be perfect just about now.

Still, Kurt obeys, crawling seductively up to Blaine, and their mouths meet in a passionate kiss. "I give the orders today" he gets out breathily, twitching as Blaine's hand encloses him, bucking furiously into the touch he's missed more than he'd ever care to admit. No matter how hard he's tried, no one else can hold a candle to this boy.

It's not long before he's coming as well, but he's far from sated, because this isn't the release he needs; it's far too loving and sweet. When he gets his breath back, he grabs the little bottle from the top drawer and crawls back between Blaine's sprawled legs. "Hands and knees" he orders with a slap to that muscled thigh.

Blaine scrambles to obey. This isn't a position they use a lot, much preferring to be face-to-face, but he suspects Kurt needs to just let go, and he isn't going to do that if he's looking at his partner.

The next moment, Kurt's already got two fingers inside him. He grunts, enjoying the flash of burn, and it isn't long before Kurt's fingers are no longer there. He hears the crinkle of foil, and his heart clenches briefly, because before, they hadn't been using protection anymore, having both been each others' first and only. Now, they haven't talked about that yet.

And then Kurt is pressing into him, not taking his time. He hasn't stretched Blaine as much as usual, but he just needs this rough, real connexion. Blaine moves his hands up to grab the headboard and hold on, because he knows he's in for a wild ride.

He isn't wrong. Kurt proceeds to ravish him, and when he's done, they rest for a few moments before repeating the entire thing. Blaine isn't complaining, this is hot and fantastic, but he knows that right now, he's nothing more than a fuck-buddy, an outlet for Kurt's roiling grief, and the next time, _he's_ going to take charge of their encounter.

But for now, he lets out another too-loud moan of appreciation as Kurt's hand reaches around to stroke him, and he's lost in the amazing sensations surrounding him. It's a prelude to the rest of their night, and by the time morning dawns, both are aching and sore, beyond exhausted, and Kurt has finally worked the worst of his demons free.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: This is the funeral. I highly encourage you to listen to the songs mentioned here. There's a list at the bottom of the page.  
**

**Warnings: Um, self-explanatory, I think. This is where I got a chance to say good-bye, through the characters we all love. I hope I did him justice.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

The morning of the funeral dawns, warm and sunny, and Kurt doesn't understand how those damn birds can be so damn happy. He doesn't understand how the entire world doesn't somehow sense the massive, gaping, Finn-shaped hole in his world. He doesn't have the heart to dress yet, or go through any of his elaborate morning rituals, so he descends the stairs with a heavy heart, wearing an old Dalton t-shirt of Blaine's and his favourite black yoga pants. He has a charcoal grey, toggled sweater wrapped around his torso, because despite the warm June air, he's _freezing_.

Carole and his Dad look as though they've been sitting at the kitchen table for hours, and considering how he'd spent the night agonising over the eulogy and harmonies, Kurt supposes it's not surprising.

"How are you, Sweetheart?" Carole asks, catching his hand as he walks by, making a beeline for the coffee automat. "Did you manage to sleep?"

He's suffered from nightmares and insomnia his entire life, and they both know that. He lifts a shoulder non-committally, suspecting no words are needed. He hasn't slept, not properly, since he learnt the news.

"How are you holding up?" he asks her once he's had a few shots of caffeine. His voice is suffering from this lack of care, lower and huskier than normal, and his vocal coach is going to blast him once he gets back to NYADA.

Carole swallows hard, and he can see her struggle to tamp down on the swelling emotion. Tears trickle down her already-damp cheeks. "I just want it to be over" she whispers.

Both Hummel men reach out and grab one of her hands, squeezing, and she offers a shaky smile. "Thank God I still have you two."

"We're not going anywhere" Burt says, not liking how ragged and unkept his son looks. He's made no effort to moisturise or hide the dark bags under his haunted eyes. He tries to smile for his wife.

"Dad, you look terrible. You need to take better care of yourself, what with your heart and your most recent health scare. You need to sleep more, and eat better. There's a reason you have a diet and exercise schedule" Kurt scolds, more harshly than intended. "We can't lose you."

The unspoken _I can't lose you too_ is heard loud and clear.

"I'm doing fine, health-wise, Kiddo" Burt reassures his son gently, knowing that it's now more important than ever that he stick around. He's not sure if either of the two sitting with him at the table will make it if he doesn't. The Father reaches out his other hand and ensnares his son's, wondering if what he's going to say is wise.

"One day, I'm gonna die, Kurt. That's just what happens, but we, both of us, plan to be around a really long time. Look at me, I'm practically a force of nature, you just can't kill me" Burt jokes, seeing the way his son pales dramatically, and that's saying something, considering how naturally pale he already is.

At least the joke seems to ease him somewhat, and Carole manages a hollow chuckle in approval.

"I can't lose you, Dad" Kurt says finally, voice tiny and trembling. "I can't."

"Saying goodbye is part of life" Burt says gently. It's a lesson all three of them have already learnt far too well. "Sometimes, as you know all too well, it happens far too soon, and it just ain't fair."

"We have to find a way to be thankful for the time we had together" Carole says, wiping a tear. They are all far too well-aware that every moment they had with Finn had been a gift. He never should have survived past ten-year-old.

Kurt closes his eyes, another wave of pain washing over his body, and he shudders. He's trying so hard to be strong for Carole, who's lost both her husband and her son, and his Dad, whose heart is weak and who is struggling to support his wife, but it's just not working, and today, he somehow has to find the strength to stand up in front of an entire audience of people, all of whom loved his brother, and remember him for all of them. It's a tall order, and the added pressure has only been adding to his headaches and nausea this week.

"We're gonna make it through this, Kiddo" Burt says gently. "All of us. Together."

Kurt nods wordlessly, not realising how tightly he is clenching his Father's hand until the man winces.

"Kurt, you're kind of breaking my hand here" the Father finally speaks up.

"Sorry" Kurt breathes, snatching his hand away. "Dad, I'm so sorry!"

Burt chuckles. "Betcha didn't realise you were that strong, eh?"

Although he cannot laugh, he can appreciate his Father's attempt. "Yeah" he agrees weakly.

It isn't long until Grandparents start appearing, and that's when Kurt, having already made toast and scrambled eggs for breakfast, diplomatically disappears to his room to get ready.

Dressing has always been sort of a ritual for him, and now as he steps out of the shower, the significance of this moment hits him, hard. This is his final good-bye to a man that had become a best friend to him, a true brother, in every sense of the word. He swallows down painfully as he massages lotion into his creamy skin and leans over the counter of his bathroom, moisturising his face. He moves almost mechanically, attention focussed elsewhere as he tries not to notice why he's doing this.

Bathrobe wrapped around his slender torso, he steps out and it feels almost like a reverent process as he dresses himself for his brother's funeral, having selected the outfit not only to be respectful whilst still being fashionably fabulous, but also containing a few touches that would have given said brother a kick.

"_I think it's awesome, Dude. It's like gay Braveheart."_

His heart clenches as he attaches the foot-jersey pin to his lapel, just above where the white carnation will be pinned. He looks at himself in the mirror, tugging minutely at the narrow, black tie with red highlights in the fabric. They've decided on red, in honour of his time at McKinley, and what the school had meant to him. His face is clenched and expressionless, Kurt deep within his head as he completes this ritual.

* * *

There is one final hour of the wake at the funeral home. All of the New Directions, old and new, are there, and Blaine comes up to him, resplendent in a Huge Boss suit, his chequered bowtie a cheeky nod to the former Quarterback, and grasping his hand, doesn't let go, not once.

It feels like a lifeline.

He stands there, accepting the constant presence of mourners who file through, offering their deepest, teary condolences, and it's even worse than yesterday's sessions. He shakes every hand (that will shake his; some visitors and older family members ignore his presence), offers thanks (because honestly, what do you say to this?), and bites hard on his tongue so as not to let his inner bitch out, but it's so much harder than he'd thought. Every passing moment is getting harder and harder, and he's already stretched so thin, and he knows it won't let up until this horrid, interminable day is over. He's pretty sure he is trembling the entire time with the force of his violently-repressed emotion, and he's already downed more antacids and painkillers than are healthy.

And then it's time, and all the visitors are gone, and they gather round the coffin for one last moment before it is closed for good. They all join hands, Carole reaching out to grasp Finn's in hers. Burt has his arm around his wife and son, who still hasn't managed to let go of Blaine's hand. Rachel is on his other side, mascara already tracked down her face; she and Carole have been practically inseparable this morning.

"Finn." Carole stops, swallows hard. Burt tightens his hand on her shoulder, stepping closer. "From the moment I learnt I was pregnant with you, you were the light of my life. You were my strength through all those years alone, the reason I continued. You were my laughter, my joy, my exasperation, my headaches and my sleepless nights, my pride and I'll say it again, my joy. Every moment I was lucky enough to spend with you, that all of us were lucky enough to spend with you, will be treasured in my heart forever."

She chokes and her voice breaks. "I love you, Finn." She is shattering into a million pieces.

Kurt's heart feels like it is breaking, and he has to turn away from the overwhelming intensity of grief that has descended upon them. Rachel is shaking with sobs, and Blaine's head is bowed. Kurt can feel how hard he is suppressing his own emotions, and he's never been more grateful for anyone in his life.

Carole finds yet another reserve of strength within herself and breaks the semi-circle they've formed, stepping up to kiss her son one final time on the forehead. Burt pats his shoulder and mumbles something no one else can hear before following his wife from the room.

Kurt steps forward now, eyes glassy and jaw aching, deciding to let Rachel have a moment; she'll be less inclined towards some over-the-top dramatics if there's no audience anyway. He remembers how creepy he'd found it when his Mom had died and he'd tried to hold her hand, finding it cold and limp, remembers how he'd burst into tears when she hadn't responded to him. In his head, he knows he's older and knows better, but that little boy in him doesn't want a repeat of that, and so he doesn't touch Finn now. He steps close, Blaine's arm around his waist, and instead of speaking merely looks at that face, hoping against hope that something out there exists where Finn is maybe still around.

Then he leaves.

* * *

The church is overcrowded, filled with family and friends, students and teachers from McKinley, from college, a couple buddies from the army, community members. It seems like most of the town has turned out because, as Quarterback of the football team, Finn had automatically been relegated to hero status in Lima, and this tragedy has rocked the town to its core.

The front few pews are filled with family, the New Directions sitting in the third row on one side. Both sets of Grandparents frown and glare furiously, but Kurt doesn't care as he pulls Blaine up to sit beside him, front and centre with his Dad and Carole. Kurt needs him there.

The girls of the New Directions, old and new, stand and make their way to the front, and open the service with 'Eighteen 'Til I Die', changing it from a rock anthem to a tender ballad that has everyone sobbing before a single word can be said. It takes everything Kurt has not to lose it.

Carole has always been a church-goer, and had often taken Finn with her when he was younger, so the service is conducted by a minister that has known Finn since childhood. They open with a prayer and a few words, and then, because it's a Glee funeral, instead of a reading, there's another song. Rachel and Kurt stand side-by-side, unable to look at each other, because they won't get through this if they don't.

The opening chords of 'For Good' ring out from the piano, and this time they're singing it not to each other, or for the glory they dream of, but for Finn, who has changed their lives . . . for good.

_I've heard it said,_

_That people come into our lives_

_For a reason,_

_Bringing something we must learn._

_And we are led to those_

_Who help us most to grow,_

_If we let them,_

_And we help them in return._

_Well I don't know if I believe that's true,_

_But I know I'm who I am today_

_Because I knew you._

Tears are streaming down both their faces before the first verse is even through, and never has a song _hurt_ as much as this, never has it been quite so important. Never has it _meant_ so much, and never has its words rung so true. They will never see him again, but no matter what, a part of him will always be in their hearts, because they have changed each other, for better or for worse, although Kurt knows it's for better.

_Like a comet pulled from orbit_

_As it passes the sun._

_Like a stream that hits a boulder_

_Halfway through the wood._

_Who can say_

_If I've been changed for the better_

_But, because I knew you_

_I have been changed for good._

_It well may be_

_That we will never meet again_

_In this lifetime,_

_So let me say before we part _

_So much of me is made_

_Of what I learnt from you,_

_You'll be with me_

_Like a handprint on my heart._

_And now whatever way our story goes,_

_I know you have re-written mine_

_By being my friend._

_Like a ship blown from its mooring_

_By a wind off the sea._

_Like a seed dropped by a skybird_

_In a distant wood._

_Who can say_

_If I've been changed for the better, but_

_Because I knew you_

_Because I knew you _

_I have been changed for good._

_And just to clear the air,_

_I ask forgiveness_

_For the things I've done you blame me for._

_But then I guess we know_

_There's blame to share._

_And none of it seems to matter_

_Anymore._

_Like a comet pulled from orbit_

_As it passes the sun_

_(Like a ship blown from its mooring_

_By a wind off the sea)_

_Like a stream that meets a boulder_

_Halfway through the wood_

_(Like a seed dropped by a bird in the wood)_

_Who can say_

_If I've been changed for the better._

_I do believe I have been changed for the better._

_But, because I knew you,_

_Because I knew you,_

_Because I knew you,_

_I have been changed for good._

"You are so brave" Blaine whispers, squeezing his trembling hand as he reclaims his sear.

Finn's Grandmothers get up and share a reading, their eyes damp despite their dislike of Kurt (and each other, for that matter). Music has such power. It can touch the emotions regardless of race, religion, language, it's a universal language that transcends the normal barriers created by spoken languages, and it's something they'd all learnt and used every day in Glee club.

Its power is what had brought the Quarterback of the football team and the head Cheerleader to become best friends with the resident gay kid and the wheelchair kid, and the weird Goth girl with the stutter.

And it's what will allow them to say goodbye to their friend, team-mate, and brother.

Quinn and Santana are next up. Kurt hadn't realised they were going to sing something, although he's not surprised, considering they have always held a special place in Finn's heart; Finn's first love, and his first time. Santana has been a cold-hearted bitch this entire week, whilst Quinn has been silently crying the entire time. Rather fitting to their personalities, and yet when they team up together and duet on 'Without You' from _Rent_, it's a powerful moment that sends chills through the church, and even Santana's façade finally cracks, a few stray tears trickling down her cheeks by the end, although they are quickly and fiercely dashed away.

_Without you_

_The ground thaws_

_The rain falls_

_The grass grows_

_Without you_

_The seeds root_

_The flowers bloom_

_The children play_

_The stars gleam_

_The poets dream _

_The eagles fly_

_Without you_

_The earth turns_

_The sun burns_

_But I die, without you _

_Without you _

_The breeze warms_

_The girl smiles_

_The cloud moves_

_Without you _

_The tides change_

_The boys run _

_The oceans crash_

_The crowds roar_

_The days soar_

_The babies cry_

_Without you _

_The moon glows_

_The rivers flows_

_But I die, without you _

_The world revives_

_Colours renew_

_But I know blue_

_Only blue_

_Lonely blue_

_Lonely blue_

_Without you _

_Without you _

_The hand gripes_

_The ear hears_

_The pulse beats_

_Without you _

_The eyes gaze_

_The legs walk_

_The lungs breathe_

_The mind churns_

_The heart yearns_

_The tears dry_

_Without you _

_Life goes on_

_But I'm gone _

_'Cause I die_

_Without you _

_Without you _

_Without you _

_Without you._

Brittany squeezes Santana tightly when the Latina returns to her seat, but the darker girl pulls away, her grip on her emotions too tenuous for the sort of comfort Brittany is offering. Quinn leans into Puck's arms, burying her face in his shoulder for a long moment, her own shaking as she struggles to regain her composure.

Kurt tunes out as there are more readings, the minister speaks, but tunes back in as all the New Directions boys past and present, including Mr. Schue, stand and make their way to the front. He hasn't rehearsed anything with them, simply told them they were allowed to sing a few songs. He hadn't even wanted to know what or who, just how many slots they had needed. He hadn't been able to go and sing with them, not for this.

Their version of 'Not the End' is tender and it blows him away, and as he curls in on himself, he wonders just how much more of this he can take. And yet it seems to be doing something good, because as he watches Carole, beneath her obvious grief is something that is not quite a smile, as the music seems to be somehow loosening the grief inside her. It is obvious, watching these performances, just how _loved_ Finn is, and will remain.

When they finish, Mr. Schue steps forward, holding something in his hands. "When I took over the Glee club four years ago, it was because my own teacher had inspired me. Her love of music awoke something in me, drove me to more and to better, and led me back to the school where I started, determined to continue her legacy of passing the language of music on."

He looks down at the piece of wood – a plaque? - in his hands. "In the choir room, we have a plaque with her picture, so we won't forget. Finn joined, reluctantly at first, but he became the backbone, the Quarterback, so to say, of our little group of misfits, and in those walls, he found his purpose. He was accepted to teacher's college, and started properly studying music and phys-ed, his two loves, so he could pass that on."

The teacher is obviously struggling. Anyone who had ever spent any time in that choir room knows Finn had been the teacher's favourite, and they had shared a paternal-like bond. "So we found it only fitting that, as an irreplaceable member of the McKinley Glee Club, that Finn's picture remain up on the wall, as a reminder to us all to embrace life, to step outside our comfort zones, and to be the best friend that we can. He will not be forgotten."

He turns the plaque around, revealing a photo of a grinning Finn, but what catches Kurt's eye is the engraving below the photo, with the dates on it, and it makes his breath catch in his chest as his eyes fixate on the _1994-2013_. Nineteen short, gifted years.

A choked sob escapes.

Mr. Schue steps forward and presents the plaque to Carole and Burt to examine. "I'll expect you to come hang it up it with us" he says as she runs her finger along the black border.

Burt nods.

"We'll be there" Carole gets out. She looks like she's trembling.

The boys file back into the pew, and after a few more words, Kurt is introduced. Blaine squeezes him supportively as he rises, walking the interminable distance up past his brother's coffin (extra-long), but he forgoes the pulpit, standing instead beside the photograph of Finn with the colourful flower arrangement, replete with football helmets, that he had designed, ready to eulogise his brother. The arrangement is repulsive, but he's proud of it, because he knows Finn would have loved it, and laughed at it. Especially as he'd slipped in a few tailored McKinley football jerseys.

He takes a moment, inhaling deeply before turning to face the congregation.

"Mr. Schue, you took half the words out of my mouth" he says as an opening, and there is a small titter. As difficult as it is, he knows Finn wouldn't have wanted them all crying. His job here is to lighten the mood.

"Finn has a weird-looking scar on his shoulder" he begins, and he knows he has everyone's attention, because this isn't what they are expecting. He sees the looks of horror that cross certain Grandparents' faces, but he is practiced at ignoring them. "I asked him about it, and Carole started laughing her head off, whilst he got really red. So of course, I had to know. As it turns out, when he was about eight, there was a particularly strong rainstorm. Like any self-respecting boy, he went out to play as soon as he was allowed. There were so many puddles to personally examine."

He can see Carole almost smiling, and he knows he has made the right choice. He ignores the nausea in the back of his throat, the constant ache in his stomach.

"Near his house was a bit of a park with a playground and a stream. He went there, dried the slide with the seat of his pants, knocked all the raindrops off the monkey bars, that sort of thing. And when he went to check out how much more water was in the stream, he noticed something floating down. Now, this torrential rainstorm had obviously turned the quiet brook into a raging, white-water monster, and as soon as little Finn saw this white thing bobbing up and down, he knew he had to take a closer look."

The crowd is chuckling appreciatively at his irony, and something unknots somewhat inside his belly. He just has to keep playing to the crowd, forget the reason this performance even exists.

"Moving through the thick underbrush, he got closer and realised it was in fact a white-and-black puppy that had somehow fallen into the water. In a daring feat of bravery, he leapt into this raging water, heading straight for the puppy, thoughts of knighthood on his mind. He leapt, and wouldn't you know, he caught it."

Kurt pauses for dramatic effect. "He caught all forty-centimetres of plastic-inflated toy of it, and tripped over a rock, falling headlong into the fifteen-centimetre deep brook. Thankfully, he had a floaty-toy to keep him afloat until he could make it half a metre back to shore."

There's laughter now, and Blaine is looking so proud of him.

"On the way out, he realised there was a leech on him, which tells you just how fast the water was flowing, and in his panicked attempt to get rid of it, he stabbed himself with a stick and hit himself with a rock. In the end, Spot the floating dog did the nasty deed."

More chuckles, and a few cousins and aunts are nodding in fond remembrance.

"For me, that story pretty much embodies what Finn i-was." He catches himself at the last moment, the slip not going unnoticed. He needs to take a moment to regroup, his breath shaky. "I'm not going to stand here and tell you he was perfect; he wasn't. We all have our flaws and I could list dozens of Finn's, that's part of being human. In fact, I liked to list them every morning, when I woke up and tripped over his shoes in the middle of the floor, when I smelt the odour emanating from the gym bag he'd forgotten in the entrance, or when I put my hand on a sticky spot on the counter he hadn't wiped up. But his flaws, his weaknesses, they were as important a part of him as his good qualities, and we only love him all the more for them."

The crowd is warming up to him, and Kurt continues to work them as he remembers his brother. He is so grateful to the minister for introducing him not as Finn's 'step'-brother, but as his 'brother'.

"He had the biggest heart you can imagine, once he got over the fear of letting it show. He had the tendency to jump first and think later, especially when in an attempt to do something for someone else. His attempts were always interesting in their approach, tended to be bungled somehow, but in the end, it never mattered, because however misguided his approach or thought process, his heart was always, _always_ in the right place. He thought with his heart, he acted with his heart, and Gaga knows he was lacking a few brain cells when it came to co-ordination, but despite that all, he always managed to pull it off, because with him, it really was the thought that counted. And with him, it was always about the heart."

Kurt has to stop and breathe, because he's starting to lose it. He glances towards the flower arrangement.

"Finn wasn't afraid to put himself out there. He was a leader; Quarterback of the football team, co-captain of Glee. He kept us together more times than I can count, risking his neck to protect us, inspire us, encourage us, especially at the beginning, when joining Glee was basically painting yourself with a flashing neon target."

"When our parents began dating, it was hard at first. We had never really spoken, barely knew each others' names, and had nothing other than Glee in common, and just barely, because our musical tastes were basically polar opposite." Kurt won't mention the bullying; this isn't the time or place, and it would be wrong. "I can't remember the last time we agreed on a radio station in the car or a CD in the living room, but the Beatles was usually a safe choice – the only one. We had our ups and downs, our mishaps, our fights and arguments, Gaga, did we ever."

A few more chuckles, Burt nodding exasperatedly.

"But through it all, it never mattered. He stood up to a homophobic town and declared himself my protector. When he learnt, he stood every day between the flames that were thrown and me, refusing to let me get hurt by ignorance and intolerance."

Carole's eyes are shining with pride as she remembers the wedding, and the song he'd sung to Kurt.

"He epitomised the opposite; the Quarterback of the football team who had dated the head Cheerleader, and yet he became a champion of the underdog, standing up for all of us, because he had the status in school to do so, getting slushied along with the rest of us when the school decided to push us back in what they dubbed 'our place'. No matter how hard it was, regardless of the personal cost, he stood up for his family, his friends, and for what he thought was right."

Hard, painful swallow. "When he told me he wanted to apply to teacher's college, I was so proud. That was something I had always been able to see him doing. He already was a natural leader, he had such passion for life and music and Glee, and he was always a big, goofy kid. He would have been an _amazing_ teacher."

Another hard swallow as he thinks of what will never be.

"As it turns out, it wasn't meant to be. Finn wasn't meant to be. Every moment we had with him, as exasperated as we might have been with his cluelessness, as entertained as we might have been by his attempts to dance, as touched as we might have been by his heart, every single moment was a gift. Like the song says, because we knew him, he changed us, for the better, for good. He didn't just leave a handprint on our heart, he left a Finn-shaped imprint, and his absence has left a gaping, Finn-shaped hole.

"So the next time we can't get a dance step, the next time we bang our head on the doorjamb, the next time we trip over our feet . . . the next time we need to choose between what is right and what is easy," he chances a glance in Blaine's direction, seeing the curly-haired boy smile at the half-quote, "well, there'll be that giant, Finn-shaped print on our hearts to guide us. And if he can inspire an entire town to be a better person, to be more willing to embrace differences than condemn them, and to be kinder to everyone they encounter . . ."

Kurt lets his voice trail off for a moment, preparing the audience for his final words. He's putting his talents at being a Diva and a drama Queen to their best use.

". . . That's a legacy more powerful than any physical accomplishment he could boast. He's made each of us a better person simply by being a part of our lives. And that's how we'll remember him; with his goofy smile, his clumsy feet, and his heart of gold."

Kurt can feel his entire body trembling, it has been since he stood up here. He turns to his brother's coffin and lays his hand on the red McKinley jersey that is draped overtop. His head bows until his forehead rests atop the red fabric. "Thank you, Finn" he whispers, taking a private moment for his final good-bye. "I miss you."

His voice cracks and he flees, Blaine catching him as he practically collapses into his seat.

"That was exquisite" Carole manages, leaning around Burt to offer some strength to her remaining son. She's always known he has a gift of words, he's certainly used them against people enough times. It's wonderful for her to see them being used for something this positive, as heart-breaking as it had been. She will ask him for a copy later, because that had been the most touching remembrance she's ever heard.

Burt wraps a fatherly arm around his boy's shoulders as the minister thanks Kurt for his beautiful words, trying to help steady them. Kurt zones out until suddenly Rachel is standing in front, her waterproof mascara clumped and streaking, her eyes red-rimmed and tragic, her entire being the embodiment of despair. He hadn't known that she was singing a solo, but he should have known. It's always been their way, to sing about it.

The guitar starts, and as Kurt realises what song she's singing, he knows he's going to lose the rest of whatever shreds of whatever it is he has.

_Over._

_I can't believe it's over,_

_I can't believe the love I left_

_To show some other day._

_Listen._

_I hope that you can hear me_

_As I kneel down and pray_

_With the love I meant to say._

_Shadows._

_You took away the shadows._

_Before your life was black and white_

_Though tonight the room's gone grey._

_Golden._

_All the love you gave was golden._

_Gold that I would gladly pay_

_To show the love I meant to say._

_Oh music._

_You made me hear such music._

_Without you here to guide me_

_I feel our song will fly away._

_Sorry._

_That's the word I want to sing to you._

_The other word is stay?_

_To hear the love I meant to say._

Her perfect voice, her beautiful, Broadway-belter voice is suddenly toned down to a raw, simple sound that is simply overwhelmed with emotion. She's barely holding it together, but the way her emotion and grief bring out flaws in her voice only add to the power of the performance, and Kurt doesn't know how he's supposed to follow that. It is one of the most heart-wrenching, exquisite things he's ever heard, regardless of what she says of his 'I Want to Hold Your Hand' performance.

The Grandfathers stand up after a long, drawn-out moment of silence as no one wants to beak the spell Rachel's performance has cast. Several women are outright sobbing, both Carole and Rachel amongst them, and it's taking everything Kurt has not to crack and allow himself to do the same. He isn't listening though, because he knows he's up next, and he can only be thankful that Blaine will be up there with him, and he can draw some much-needed strength from the curly-haired teenager.

And then his rest is over, and Blaine is holding his hand as they stand and make their way to the grand piano. Blaine sits, fiddles with the bench for a moment, showing his nerves as he adjusts it for longer than is really necessary before settling and looking up at Kurt. No words are exchanged as Blaine begins, the opening notes soft on the piano.

Kurt takes a few deep breaths, trying to centre himself, because between the songs that have been sung, his eulogy, and Rachel's performance, he's this close to losing it, and it's going to take next to nothing to send him over. He's not even holding on by a thread.

_Lay down_

_Your soft and weary head_

_Night is falling_

_You have come to journey's end._

_Sleep now_

_Dream, of the ones who came before._

_They are calling_

_From across a distant shore._

_Why do you weep?_

_What are these tears upon your face?_

_Soon you will see_

_All of your fears will pass away._

_Safe in my arms,_

_You're only sleeping._

_What can you see_

_On the horizon?_

_Why do the white doves call?_

_Across the sea,_

_A pale moon rises._

_The ships have come_

_To carry you home._

_And all will turn_

_To silver glass._

_A light on the water,_

_All souls pass._

_Hope fades_

_Into the world of night,_

_Through shadows falling_

_Out of memory and time._

_Don't say_

_We have come now to the end._

_White shores are calling._

_You and I will meet again._

_And you'll be here_

_In my arms_

_Just sleeping._

_What can you see_

_On the horizon?_

_Why do the white doves sail?_

_Across the sea,_

_A pale moon rises._

_The ships have come_

_To carry you home._

_And all will turn_

_To silver glass._

_A light on the water,_

_All souls pass._

_Into the west._

The world, which had faded away during the performance until there had been only Kurt, Blaine, and Finn's memory, comes harshly back as the final, gentle piano notes fade out, the silence jarring him from the spell he's created.

He's shaking as Blaine guides him back to the hard pew, slowing as the pass by the coffin, both of them pausing as Blaine needs his moment. And then they're sitting again, and Kurt is realising it's almost over . . . this unreal, dream-like week of hell is about to be over, and instead real life will begin anew. Only this will be a whole new life, one where his brother is no longer a part of it, and Kurt knows only too well that after a funeral, everyone expects you to have moved on, forgetting that such a loss takes . . . takes a lifetime to get over.

And maybe he doesn't want this week of mourning and understanding and compassion to be over, because next week he has to go back to school and work and his lonely apartment with two other grieving girls, and he would give _anything_ for one more warm milk before bed with his brother, for one more foul-smelling sock in a corner, one more floor covered in nacho and sandwich crumbs, one more _anything_ that means Finn is still there.

He'll even take the plaid flannel shirt with the striped, poofy vest atop.

He's thankful for Blaine calling him to attention as the entire New Directions, new and old, are ready to close out the service. He doesn't even know what they're singing, but Blaine tugs him to stand between him and Sam, both boys flanking him, supporting him. Santana, Quinn and Rachel are also standing unusually close. Even Mr. Schue has joined them.

With the opening chord on the piano, Kurt knows what they're singing, and his knees almost give out at the thought of singing this for Finn. Luckily Blaine and Sam are strong on either side of him, holding him up as they start singing together.

_Five-hundred, twenty-five-thousand, six-hundred minutes._

_Five-hundred, twenty-five-thousand moments so dear._

_Five-hundred, twenty-five-thousand, six-hundred minutes._

_How do you measure a year in the life?_

It _hurts_. It hurts so damn badly. The numbness upon which he's been relying to get through this nightmare cannot hold up to the emotional bullet that is 'The Love You Meant to Say', 'Into the West' and then this final song.

Blaine's arm is tight around his waist as everything feels like it's crumpling about him, and so Kurt allows the music to wash over him, the emotion of the song filling him, breaking him . . . destroying him.

He loves this song to death. He loves _Rent_. But he doesn't know if he can ever watch it again.

_Goodbye, Finn_.

* * *

**Songs:**

**'Eighteen Til I Die' Bryan Adams (turned into a ballad)**

**'For Good' from _Wicked_ by Stephen Schwartz**

**'Without You' from _Rent_ by Johnathon Larson**

**'Not the End' Cory Monteith sang this on the Graduation Album, but it didn't appear in an episode**

**'The Love I Meant to Say' from the musical TV series _Smash_, the fictional musical _Hit List_**

**'Into the West' from _Lord of the Rings_**

**'Seasons of Love' from _Rent_ by Johnathon Larson**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: This chapter is another Klaine sex scene, a very different one from the last, but I still felt it needed to be here. It's about Blaine using his love to help Kurt finally deal with the emotions he's been repressing, so it's more about the love these two young men share, and Kurt expressing his grief. It's not very graphic, but you can skip it if it makes you uncomfortable, the story will exist with merely the summary of what happens here.**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

After the internment ceremony, where Carole nearly loses it as she tosses a handful of dirt on her son's casket, Blaine whisks Kurt away from the reception hosted by the Berrys, with full permission from Burt. It doesn't take a genius to see that Kurt is rapidly falling apart at the seams.

Blaine drives them to his house, knowing his parents aren't home, so they can have all the time they need. Kurt moves woodenly, barely aware of his surroundings, because it's easier to shut down than to allow this agony entry. The dark-haired teenager guides his best friend, his soulmate, up the stairs to his bedroom.

Kurt stands motionlessly in the middle of the room as Blaine rushes around, preparing things. He draws the blinds, because the bright sunlight is far too happy, lights candles, puts on his _Les Mis_ playlist, knowing the dramatic tragedy will be the perfect counterpoint to Kurt's roiling emotions. In the bathroom, Blaine runs a bath, pouring in the lavender-scented oil Kurt loves so much.

"Let me take care of you" he says softly to Kurt, slowly divesting him of his impeccable clothing. The countertenor shudders at the love inherent in each movement and touch, closing his eyes against it. He doesn't protest as Blaine kisses the skin he tenderly bares, folding each article carefully before leading Kurt into the bathroom.

He doesn't soak for long; he never does, it's bad for the complexion, but the tenderness with which Blaine rolls up his shirt-sleeves and bathes Kurt is undoing him. "Blaine" he breathes, his voice almost overflowing with pain.

"I've got you" Blaine says, his voice confident and sure, and Kurt trusts him, because Blaine has _always_ had him. Despite what had happened in the fall, he still trusts Blaine with everything, no matter how hard he tries not to. "I've got you" he repeats, the baby-blue loofah (_"it reminds me of your eyes"_) moving to Kurt's legs.

They cut the bath short as Kurt's trembling worsens, and he stumbles getting out, half-soaking Blaine in the process.

"I've got you" Blaine says yet again, and it's so, so true.

Blaine leads him across to the bed, pushing him down to lay on his front. Clad in only his underwear, he straddles Kurt and begins smoothing that pomegranate-scented moisturiser into his skin, making it into a massage. "You're so stiff and knotted" Blaine murmurs under his breath, digging his fingers in deeply.

Kurt moans, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the shattering of his heart. He hadn't even realised this tension has been settling into his muscles. Blaine works on him for nearly a half hour, kneading, smoothing and kissing his way down Kurt's smooth, slender body to his toes before turning him onto his back and starting again.

Kurt needs this. They both do. Kurt needs this, to feel this connexion with another human being. Last time had been about feeling _anything_, feeling _alive_. This time, it's about being close to someone . . . being loved by someone, and that's what Blaine is giving him in spades, his mouth following his hands as he lovingly kisses his way up and down Kurt's body.

It's hard for him to take, the pleasure coursing through his veins feeling at once so wrong and so right, and Blaine knows it and doesn't let up, making him take it. As the touches turn more intimate, it's not long before the tears begin leaking down his arched cheeks. He tries to squirm away, but Blaine doesn't relent, leaning up to kiss away the tears as his hands continue their work lower down.

Blaine _worships_ Kurt's body. He touches, kisses, licks every single millimetre, using his actions to tell Kurt what he cannot believe in words, and as he begins to slowly, achingly, maddeningly slowly, prepare Kurt, he can see it trying to sink in.

Kurt is outright sobbing at the conflicting sensations and emotions when Blaine finally sinks into him, holding his gaze daringly, and as Blaine rocks and slowly begins making love to him, the dam finally bursts.

It's like a torrential rainfall, and he doesn't know how long it lasts, but Blaine is right there, inside him, around him, surrounding him and holding him, keeping him safe and loved, and as his hips continue pushing into Kurt, his mouth kissing away tears as his words promise everything Kurt has ever wanted, Kurt finally lets go.

Finn is gone.

Finn is gone, torn away from this life, and he's not coming back. His heart clenches and twists in his chest, and he gasps for air as Blaine refuses to let him retreat into his head, making him face the crushing agony with every gentle thrust and loving kiss.

Kurt sobs, desperately, frantically, achingly with everything he has, reality hitting home. It _hurts_ more deeply than he had remembered. His brother is gone, and he will never be best man at Kurt's wedding. He will never marry. He will never teach his child how to play football. He will never graduate from college. He will never continue the legacy Mr. Schue had started with them three years ago in the choir room.

They will never share another late-night chat over warm milk (or wine). They will never fight over sticky dishes and stray socks that smell. They will never plot to surprise their parents on their anniversary.

These four years they've had together will never be enough, and yet they will have to suffice for a lifetime. These four years are all they will ever have, and as his sobs become more violent, Blaine speeding up his thrusts, he finally sees this. It's real, and this too-short time he was lucky enough to share has changed everything. Finn had made Kurt realise that even the most stereotypical guy's guy could become a champion for the underdog. He had taught Kurt to not be so quick to judge, and look a little deeper, and it's a lesson he holds close.

But he's still gone, and that gaping wound is still fresh and bleeding. His body writhes beneath Blaine, arching into pleasure that mingles seamlessly with the agony in his torso, the pain as physical as the pleasure. The more Blaine loves him, the harder he fights, misery and grief spilling violently from his being.

Blaine reaches up and restrains his wrists, and Kurt fights frantically against it, needing that physical force as an outlet for his roiling, tumbling emotions. "Let it out, love, just let it out" the curly-haired teenager encourages, his own face also tear-stained.

Finn is gone, and the rest of his life is going to be lived without him, and Kurt's heart finally cracks as he thinks about the future he will no longer share with his brother, every moment he will not be able to share, every memory only he will be able to recall.

It's a lesson Kurt has learnt years ago, but that doesn't make it any less true today; it's just not fair. It shouldn't have happened like this.

But it has, and no matter how bleak and impossible it may seem today, now matter how empty and unfathomable, his broken heart will continue beating, his lungs will continue breathing.

_The seeds root_

_The flowers bloom_

_The children play . . ._

Quinn and Santana's heart-wrenching duet springs to mind, and he wails at the pain and tearing emptiness and gaping sadness and wrenching agony. Life goes on despite it all, and he wails and sobs and fights Blaine's hold on his arms until there's nothing left.

He doesn't know how long it lasts, doesn't know how Blaine lasts that long, he doesn't even care. Not today anyway. All he needs is the security and love of this young man, and finally the sobs taper slowly off, the fight oozing from his body as Kurt realises he will be okay, regardless of what has happened in the last week. He knows this, intellectually, because he has survived his Mother dying. Shouldn't Finn be easier?

By the time they finally finish, Kurt is exhausted in every way. Their lovemaking had continued for hours, Blaine worshipping his body, reminding him of what it was to feel, allowing him to, forcing him to finally release everything that has been building and simmering all week. He is absolutely spent, lying there limply as Blaine finally pulls out, and tenderly cleans his sweaty, sticky, trembling body with a warm washcloth.

And then Blaine lays next to him, pulling Kurt tightly to himself, holding him, shielding him, sheltering him, keeping him from flying apart into a million tiny pieces. Kurt tucks his head into his soulmate's shoulder, burrowing ever closer as he is rocked through the aftershocks of his meltdown.

In spite of the crushing pain in his chest, he has never felt more loved than right this minute, because at least they, still, have tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: To all of you who are still reading, thank you for following me on this journey, and hopefully you've enjoyed and cried and maybe feel a little bit better. Having read many of these tribute fics, I know both the reading and the writing are therapeutic.**

**I wish you all strength for tonight.**

* * *

**Epilogue**

**One Year Later**

Kurt's breathing quickens as the motor turns off, eyes distant as they gaze along the peaceful-looking field.

Blaine remains quiet for a moment, reaching over from the driver's seat to lay a hand on Kurt's long, muscled thigh. It twitches beneath his touch. He says nothing, waiting quietly for what he knows will happen.

When Kurt has gathered the strength he needs, remembering the word Blaine still always texts him, he gives a sharp nod, and they both reach over and simultaneously undo their seatbelts.

Although this is the first time he's been here for this particular heart-breaking purpose, Kurt knows exactly where to go. He and Blaine hold hands tightly as they weave through the rows upon rows of stones, eyes flicking over dates or engravings, until they reach their destination.

From the three stones sitting atop the smooth marble, it's obvious Rachel has already been here today, especially considering the four red roses that rest there, one for each other their years 'together'. Carole and Burt have also been; there's a bouquet of bright yellow carnations with a small football sticking out from it.

Kurt's breath stutters and quivers as his eyes rake across the reddish stone, across the name, catching on the dates that are far too close together. He inhales sharply, lost for a moment on the _1994-2013_, and how _few_ years are between those two numbers.

Blaine squeezes his hand briefly, and after a moment, he moves on, lower, tears springing to his eyes as he reads the names of Carole and Christopher, then of himself and his Father, and it's already getting to be too much. He can hear Blaine's own unsteady breaths beside him, and it somehow gives him courage to let his eyes' journey continue.

_Don't stop believin' . . . I'll stand by you . . . faithfully_

The engraving had been Kurt's idea, and as he reads it now, he loses it. He sinks to his knees, not even trying to control the tears that bubble out and flow shamelessly down his cheeks, because one year on, it still _hurts_ so much. That gaping, Finn-shaped wreckage is still there, although the rawness of the wound is starting to ease. He knows it will never disappear though, because Finn will never disappear from his memory.

The lost teenager will always remain a vital and beloved part of Kurt's life, and because of that, the countertenor knows all too well that he will slowly become accustomed to, and even inured to, the ache, but it will never disappear.

He doesn't speak to Finn, just as he never speaks to his Mother when he visits her grave. He likes to think there's something out there, that past souls have some place to dwell, but a cemetery isn't it.

Blaine, who does believe in God and Heaven, is speaking softly to the man who would have been his brother-in-law, and Kurt tunes in as Blaine speaks about how much he is missed, how they took Nationals singing in his memory, and how there is a ring on both their fingers, even if it's going to be several years before they actually take the plunge. He too mentions something regarding the lacking brother-in-law before pausing to swallow hard, and concluding with soft "see you, Finn."

Kurt remains silent, tears streaming. He misses Finn, misses him more than he could ever have imagined, especially considering they had gone several months without speaking after graduation from high school, when Finn had enlisted. But he misses his brother every day, and it has taken him this entire difficult year to be able to visit him at his final resting place.

It hasn't been an easy year, or even much of a good one, but he's survived, just like he had realised he would that night with Blaine, after the funeral.

He's survived, his parents have survived, and coming here, he can feel a sense of peace and closure beginning to encroach on the awful pain that's been his constant companion since that horrible day one year ago. Blaine had been right; he had needed to do this.

The tears slow as he takes a few deep breaths, steadying himself. The memory springs unbidden to mind, the six of them in their red tops, singing their hearts out on that stage, to an empty auditorium, bound together by their love of music, determined to see this idea through. Opening his mouth, he hums a few bars, his voice shaky, until the words spill out. "_He took the midnight train going anywhere_."

Holding tightly to Blaine, they rise to their feet and head back for the car. For tomorrow.

**AN 2: For Finn, who made us laugh, made us cry, made us roll our eyes, made us mad, made us love. And for Cory, who was kind and generous and honest and appreciative and funny . . . and who had so much more to give. Hopefully some good can come from this entire tragedy.**


End file.
